


The Rampart

by samiam0music



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia!Bilbo, Angst, Angst for days, Character Death?, Dragon Sickness, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Guilty!Thorin, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, So much angst, Thorin Feels, Thorin Is an Idiot, lots of fluff, not really - Freeform, the rampart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:21:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3307049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samiam0music/pseuds/samiam0music
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thorin realized what Bilbo had done, realized that the hobbit had traded his Arkenstone, he saw fire. And Bilbo, being so incredibly small, was easy enough to throw from the Rampart.<br/>The company leaves Erebor, seemingly forever.<br/>10 years after Thorin 'killed' Bilbo, he breaks from his dragon sickness, sick at what he's done. He runs to the Shire, hell-bent on paying his respects to his burglar, ashamed at killing him over a stone.<br/>But what will Thorin find in Hobbiton?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

Chapter 1: Introduction

Thorin had finally thought that everything in his mangled life was to be at peace. He believed, more than anything, that his existence would return to the grandness that it had once been, and that nothing would ever be able to stop him from living out a long and happy life. He had his nephews, his heirs, at his side and his loyal companions next to them as he reentered the mountain that he had once called home. Surely, what else could a dwarf need?

Thorin's mind had been murky upon entering the treasure room, following Bilbo's lead. The dragon had long since vacated the hall to light Lake-Town, and even here, hidden within the belly of the mountain, Thorin was sure that he could hear the creatures roars. But that didn't matter, not with the gold, the treasure, the _wealth_ pooling beneath his feet and across the chamber; gold doubloons and gauntlets and coins and bars and scepters and armor and thrones and crowns and jewelry and anything the mind could really imagine was littered about, a chaotic wave of yellow sunflower and tinted brown shillings that glinted and flickered in the torchlight. The blood of his people lay upon this treasure, and the bloodline of Durin had finally come to claim their rightful place.

Of course, the Elves came. The men had been expected, too, and the dwarves had spent little time in reinforcing the front gates, large stones being stacked to the very balcony that Thorin and Balin had stood on at Smaug's first appearance in Erebor. Thorin, the king of all this finery and the whole of the mountain, looked onto the two armies before him with disgust. They only wanted his gold, his family's very  _right_ , and he would not allow these imbeciles to rotten his soil with their boot prints. There was no welcome here for the creatures, and Thorin made that quite clear to them. He'd waited a very long time for this; to prove to everyone that what they had muttered as impossible was finally set in stone, to say. He gestured grandly to his kingdoms, and dared any man or elf to come forward and face his throne,  _his home_ , but warned not to beg mercy when their throats were slit in treason. The words that Bard had called to him meant nothing. They wanted what was rightfully his, and Thorin was not about to just  _give it up._

Thorin was too riled, at first, to notice the soft gleam of white stone in Bards hand. “And would you trade what you owe us for your precious Arkenstone?” The man called.

Thorin's very heart stilled, and for a moment he remembered those many years sitting beneath his father and watching as the man stroked the stone as if it were a pet. Thrain had cooed to it, as if it were a child, and he the mother bear, swatting at any grubby hands that ever dared to come near it. Thorin felt his ribs creak at his heart exploded into loud, treacherous pounding.  _Tis but a trick,_ he shouted to them, his ears fading from the white hot noise that had taken over his mind. His head was spinning, and Thorin thought for sure that his stone castle was shifting beneath his feet. The Arkenstone, surely, was safe in the treasure room. No one would have been able to enter the mountain unseen.

“Its no trick.” Came a soft voice from behind him. “The stone is real. I gave it to them.”

Thorin turned, seeing the hobbit. His friend, Bilbo Baggins. “You?” the king growled, and everyone there to bare witness was quite sure that Thorins growling resembled that of a wild dog, drawn crazy from cold and hunger.

The hobbit nodded boldly, but one could not miss the great bob of his adam's apple as he gulped. “I took it as my fourteenth share.”

“You would steal from me?” Thorin's eyes were black then, no hint of the blue that they all had learned to associate with the hearty king they knew.But seeing the gleam that shown with bloodlust, the scowl that could curdle milk, the fists twitching for an axe...this was not their king. This was their _ruler_ , their _conqueror_ , and nothing of what they saw standing on the balcony, from the golden armor to the paled face was anything of Thorin Oakenshield. This was all the King under the mountain.

“Steal from you? No... _No_. I may be a burglar, but I'd like to think that I'm an honest one.” The hobbit took slow, shallow breathes, his eyes hard as he looked the king directly in the eye, and a chill ran through him. “I'm willing to let it stand against my claim.”

“Against your claim?” The king laughed dryly. “ _Your_ _claim_.” the growl shook Thorin's chest like a shaken bee hive. “You have no claim over me you _miserable rat.”_ he lunged, slamming his sword down on the ground as he took a few steps closer to the hobbit. No, he needn't have his blade. Anything that would do Thorin justice then would not be done with blades, no, but with his _bare hands._

“I was going to give it to you. Many times I wanted to, but—”

“But what, thief?” Thorin barked. Now the thing was lying to him. He'd wanted the treasure, _wanted it all along!_ Surely this was his motive from the start, to give the stone to the men for safe keeping and then run away with them as soon as possible. Thorin felt his muscles coiling, ready to pounce.

“You are _changed_ , Thorin.” Bilbo cried, his voice stern, but his _eyes._ Those eyes had haunted Thorin's days for a long while, and now they only fueled the flame building in his stomach. He would carve those traitorous eyes from the hobbits very skull. _“_ The dwarve I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word; Would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin!”

“Do not speak to me of loyalty.” Thorin roared, and in that instant, he was finished. “Throw him from the rampart!” he ordered, and many gasps rang around him from the mouths of his own company. There was silence from the men, and the elves seemed shaken, but Thorin was unfazed. This little wart would no longer be a bother to him; not to his kingdom, and not to his gold.

“Do you not hear me?” The king screamed, his eyes half lidded and his mouth in a sneer. Those same eyes found the thief, the things eyes wide and mouth gaped open, and if Thorin thought he saw tears in its eyes, then he did not really care to investigate. He pulled for Fili, his heir, his kin, but the dwarve only shook him off, a look of hurt and confusion and devastation on his face. Thorin's mind dawned an understanding then, and with a scowl, he turned to the burglar. “Then I will do it myself.” He grabbed the hobbits shirt front, yanking him back and against the wall. Many people grabbed at him, but in his rage, Thorin could not tell who's hands were trying to stop the hobbit from being pulled towards the parapet's edge. He heard the cries of despair, for he knew that his company had been enchanted by the little liar, just as he had. But _no more tricks_. No more. “Curse you! Curse you and the wizard who brought you to this company!” Thorin bellowed, hands clasped firmly around the _things_ neck.

“If you don't like my burglar, then please, don't damage him.” a voice called, and said wizard, Gandalf the Grey, stepped from the ranks of the joined armies. “Return him to me.” Thorin felt his blood boiling. He didn't want to return the hobbit, he wanted _to kill him_. “You're not making a very splendid figure as king under the mountain, now are you, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror.” The wizards words only angered him further, and, looking down into the hobbits frightened, teary eyes, Thorin chuckled darkly.

“You want your burglar so much?” The king boomed. “ _Catch him_.”

Bilbo fell from the wall like a stone.

Thorin had not looked to watch the hobbit fall, but he heard the sure, resounding  _crack_ that carried and reverberated up the stone pillars. The grin he wore was fostered by a blood-lust he hadn't remembered attaining, but the punishment he'd granted to the thief had his blood raking through him like lightening.

It wasn't until Kili, his beloved nephew, the son of his most loved sister, was shouting the hobbits name and running for the exit that Thorin dropped his smile. He roared at his nephew, blood filling his ears in anger. “ _Kili!_ Stay away from the thief!” His nephew did not heed him, and Thorin grabbed the boy by his tunic and all but threw him to the floor. “You'll not join that  _felon_ unless you are to exit as  _it_ did.” The king hissed, and he was met by many pairs of panicked eyes.

But no, this was not right, was it? These were his closest friends; his kin... Why was it that they were turning worried eyes against him? These were his loyalist allies, and his most valued companions, and they all seemed to stare at him in uncertainty and... and  _fear._ The hobbit must have toyed with their minds. It must have haggled with them or bribed them, but this was the burglars doing, Thorin knew. First, he had been betrayed by that criminal, and now his family was turning against him.

“He's our friend.” Balin said tentatively. “He's your friend, too, Thorin.”

Thorin glared. “He is no friend of mine.”

Kili huffed, squaring his shoulders and his jaw. “Then you are no kin of mine.” He dared. “If a shiny rock has given you reason to—to...” Kili's brow furrowed, and Thorin saw the uncertainty in his eyes.  _Surely, the hobbit was dead,_ Thorin thought, and a pleased shiver ran through him _. He'd killed the little thief and Kili was in denial,_ “to  _harm_ a friend as dear as Bilbo, then blood means as little to nothing to you, doesn't it?”

Kili went for the wall, grabbing the rope hanging over it and swung his body to the front of the kingdom. He shimmied down the rope, his journey ending in a very faint thump of boots as he ran to the hobbits side, where already Gandalf, Thranduil, and Bard were gathered around the body.

Bofur went for the rope next, and Thorin stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. “There is nothing left down there.” The king warned. “The thief is dead, and if you leave, if  _any of you_ _follow_ then your part of the treasure will be forfeited.”

Bofur huffed, pulling the kings hand off his shoulder with a hard yank. “Then I will be poor somewhere else, with a clear conscience, unlike someone I may know.” He turned, sliding down the rope and onto the ground.

Thorin stiffened, and he turned his glare to the others. “Anyone else?” He dared.

There were two moments of silence,  _two_ , before Bifur moved, followed by Bombur, then Oin and Gloin, and Dori then Ori then Nori. Thorin watched in disdain as his companions left, and soon, it was only he, Balin, Dwalin, and Fili left on the mountain.

He turned to his remaining Company. “Now I can see who is truly faithful—”

He was cut off by the hard press of a helmet to his chest, and Thorin focused to Fili. The blonde held his war helmet, the same helmet that years ago had been Thorin's, but was inherited by the boy only an hour ago. It held promise, for the future king, and Thorin had no doubt that his nephew would come to no harm in the fine silver of it.

But not if it was off his head, and certainly not if it were in Thorin's hands.

Thorin's eyes widened as he watched his heir breech the wall. “What are you doing?” The king asked hoarsely. “Your place is here, at my side and the thrones.” Thorin panted.

Fili snapped his eyes closed, seeming to argue with himself in his mind. “I love you Uncle.” He started. “But my place is with Kili, and my brother speaks the truth. If the worth of gold has taken you so belatedly, then there is no hope. You're lost to us, Uncle.” Fili breathed. “And I fear you will not see sense.” Fili trekked down the rope, and Thorin winced as he watched the last hope for his bloodline disappear.

Very well then, Thorin thought. If two dwarves was all he had to his name, then he would make do. It was obvious where the others stood, and Thorin was not going to waste time on traitors. He turned on his heel, stalking back into his throne room, seeing the glistening dazzle from his treasure shining up the stairs. “If they wish to die at the hands of the enemy, then so be it.” He growled. “We will no longer burden ourselves with their sentiment.”

 

~~

The battle raged, and from the elves, to the men, to the dwarves who had marched onto the land unannounced from the Iron Hills, to the orcs, and the goblins, there was plenty of blood spilled on Thorin's doorstep. He knew that his _traitors_ had been seen carrying Bilbo's body back to the tents, and that neither Dwalin nor Balin had seen any of them resurface from the time it took them to rally the armies for the war.

The Orcs were pushed back, and the goblins slaughtered one by one, and with the sure aim of the elves and the brutal exposition of the dwarves, Azog was eventually run down, worn down, and brought down. The large orc fell to the hand of the Elven prince, Legolas.

Thorin had locked himself within his treasury, his eyes gazing at the pure gold, relishing in the metalic scent and the haze it befell over his mind. The battle ended, and the elves made a treaty with the men, granting them enough money to help rebuild any shelter they could spare. The iron hill dwarves entered Erebor, starting the rebuilding process under the consent of the king.

The Iron Hill dwarves volunteered themselves to help build Erebor. The process was long, and tedious, and the first layer of dust had barely been scrubbed away after two weeks work. Thorin worked with Balin to fight for trade routes, and with his cousins help, was eventually able to open enough supplies up to Erebor that they could be fed well. The King under the mountain did not see many of his subjects, nor did he want word of what was happening.

Thorin did not leave his gallery.

He spent many hours everyday gazing at the Arkenstone, that of which he had traded for a hearty amount of treasure to the men. He had no use for the gold if the gem was not firmly in his grasp, and Thorin could not have cared more. He had his stone, and he had his kingdom.

Dwalin was never very far from his side, and Thorin felt assured knowing that his friend had stayed just and loyal. Balin worked with Dain, preparing the kingdom, leading many dwarves into the untouched halls that were much too small for Smaug. After a rough cleaning and a few pints of scented oil being heated in the hearths, the great halls of Erebor seemed to be finding its identity.

It took the larger portion of a year to get all the rubble cleared away and the walls rebuilt and the carvings re-etched. It took another year to decide who from the Iron Hills wished to stay and who would return to their own mountain. Thorin, of course, had sent for his sister and many other dwarves who had taken residence in the Blue Mountains, who all made plans to move back to their childhood home as fast as was possible.

When the day was over and papers signed and sent off, Thorin would gaze at the Arkenstone when he felt lonely enough, and everything inside of him would smooth it self out, flipping and mewling to the extraordinary view of the multicolored assets and hues in the stone, running his rough fingers over the silky glass. It filled him in the cracks that had formed in the time separated from his kin, and soon his breathing soothed and his shoulders sagged from the strain brought upon them by stress.

The stone, truly, was the most beautiful thing in all of existence. Anyone who said otherwise was a liar, and that thought alone made Thorin growl. He would clutch it to him, blue eyes dark and lost in the depth of the stones eye. It was like an independent creature, stealing the breath from the king as it sat in his palm. The stone was all he needed, truly, and he took comfort in its presence.

 

~~

He was standing before his treasure, the light of it reflecting onto his dark clothing and blue eyes when a content sigh escaped from Thorins lips, a smile playing in the torchlight as he relished in the view of his gold, the storm that had been brewing in his mind settling.

He heard the trod of boots behind him, and turning, Thorin met the same eyes he had inherited. Dis all but ran to him, and Thorin smiled, ready to embrace his sister, to hold her and show her the magnificent treasure that they had both come as a name to. _Sister, the treasure is ours! The stone, our! We shall share in it, share everything, and rule this land! We own everything, we are mightier than anyone! Look at the treasure!_ He wanted to hear of her life, and hear of her plans of making Erebor her new home, but the sharp pain ripping across his face as Dis planted a fist on his cheek stopped his thoughts. Thorin hadn't even stumbled until her hands gripped his tunic, and he found himself on his back, his sisters fist berating into him over and over again.

His sister was screaming at him in both tongues, and Thorin was sure he heard the words _idiot, gold-crazed, stupid, blood-traitor_ ringing though his hall. His back was struck against the gold he loved so dearly as his sister banged his body into the floor. Dis grabbed him up, dragging the king by his shirt from the hall, away from the treasure, and her eyes spoke murder to anyone that dared come near. They knew of the infamous Durin battles, and no one would dare stand against the Lady Dis.

“How _dare_ you, you selfish imp of a dwarve!” The lady growled, and Thorin watched as his sister threw him, letting him land on all fours. If Thorins mind had been meddled before, then it was clear as crystal now. He heard every footfall, every murmur, every angry gasp as his sister kicked him hard in the stomach. “I left my boys in your care, in your _confidence._ I trust my sons to your quest, and I return to the home they helped reclaim to hear that they have been _banished?”_ Dis was shrill and shrieking now, and her face was red from exertion. “And for the very stone we saw our father lose himself to!”

Thorin huffed at the next kick, and he knew very well that his brain was not as buzzed as it may had been the last few years. He dropped his gaze to the floor and basked in the normalcy he felt in his gut, and through his veins, and Thorin suddenly knew that he had done something very, very _wrong. Kili, where was Kili? Where was Fili? The battle, the battle, they'd been in the battle, and he'd let them go off without aid. Where were his nephews? They'd been too young to fight a war that large, too young to be cast out without help, and Mahal help him, Thorin needed to find his nephews._ His mind reeled, and he choked. Thorin was weigning quickly, his thoughts alive like lightening, and something within him broke at his sisters words.

“ _You've traded your nephews for this pile of metal, Thorin! You've turned on your family for a few trinkets.”_ His sister battered him with her boots. _“You ungrateful, gold-sickened, fat headed, no good—”_

He held tight to his sisters fist the next time it came down to bruise him. There was so much tension and anger coiling within it, but Thorin could not blame her. _What had he done? Where were his nephews?_ Dis fought to take back her hands, but at his gentle touch, she stilled. Dis lowered herself to the ground next to her brother. “What have you done, Thorin?”

He panted, searching her face with wide, frightened eyes. _No, no, no no no._ _Father had the sickness, grandfather had the sickness, but not I, not now..._ Thorin's eyes met his sisters, and he saw the stressed lines lining her brow and the curve of age leaning her mouth down. But no, that wasn't right. He had just seen her a year ago, when he'd gone to ask for his nephews help. She should not have aged so much in such short a time... _had it been longer?_ Something was wrong, very very wrong, and Thorin panicked. He went for his only comfort, the crystal stone in his pocket, and with his broad thumb, he stroked it. Eying his sister, he was desperate for a imaginable answer to his woes. “Are you not effected by the golds pull?” He rasped out.

Dis only shook her head. “A mothers priorities are not in wealth.”

“The sickness, Dis, it has me.” Thorin breathed. He thrust the Arkenstone into her hands, fingers shaking, eyes watering, but he released the gem with a sure intent. “Keep it away, _hide it_! It has broken me.” The pain was exploding from the bruises and fractures he was sure to sport, his sisters boots having left marks across his skin. But his mind was so clear, so incredibly... _unaffected_ , that he couldn't help but to feel relieved. Thorin stood and flew to his chambers, his tunic rumpled and dirtied by blood from his broken nose and bloodied lip. The door locked with a quick turn, and this is where Thorin allowed himself to cry.

He wailed, sobbing for his sudden clear-headedness and the onslaught of emotions that were raping his consciousness. Had he been so blind for so long? Had he been suppressing these feelings for the very cherished stone he had so ardently needed? He felt the burdens swelling in his stomach, the shame and regret of giving his nephews an ultimatum that ended in their departure, of turning away his closest friends, of throwing Bilbo—

_ Bilbo. _

Thorin's lungs deflated, and the sobs that were raking his ribs clutched at his very being. _No, no no, this can't be, no I'm wrong, no no_ no. He emptied his stomach into a trash basin, and the acidic layer in his throat scratched his tongue as he tried to breathe.

He'd thrown his friend from his kingdoms wall. He'd taken his very closest companion and had thrown him away like some kind of worthless rag doll. Bilbo had left his friends, his kin, and had trespassed the length of Middle Earth without a single coin given to him. Thorin had taken the hobbit from his home, from his armchair and books, and Thorin was the reason to why the homely quarters he had once been given a meal in would never be called home by the burglar again. Bilbo's blood had stained the front stones before the battles, Thorin had seen it, and worse, he'd spat at it wishing the worst for the hobbit.

Mahal help him, Thorin had _laughed at the hobbits death_.

He emptied his stomach twice more.

Thorin cried longer, and eventually, the heavy pounding at his door became evident, and the door gave way to Dwalins axe. He and Balin ran into their kings chambers, his blood trail having surely led them straight to him.

Balins eyes had gone wide before they softened abruptly, and the older dwarve comforted his King as if the man were just a dwarfling. The king sobbed and sobbed and finally, when his throat was unusable and his limbs limp, he collapsed on the floor with his arms gripping his friend.

“I've let the gold pollute me, and a thrashing from my sister has let pool the emotions that have been dammed by the sickness.” He cried, his voice broken and wasted. “I have banished my kin; I've k-killed—” There was quiet besides the shaking of his breathing. Thorin gasped at his own thoughts, his eyes swollen and dry.

_ What had he done? _

 


	2. Chapter Two: Watched by green eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very pissed off Dis, a trip to Hibbiton, B. Baggins in the grave yard.... and others.

Chapter 2:

Thorin entered the throne room dizzy but stable, his mind clear. His temple throbbed and his stomach was a few pounds lighter, but food was not a necessity to him at the moment. He sat heavily in his throne, massaging his head with rough fingers. The blood had been cleaned from him, his clothes changed, and with numb fingers, he had rebraided his hair, but looking better did not aid his heart any. Thorin sighed audibly and for the first time he looked to his kingdom with a clear mind.

The halls were fine and carved, furnished for royalty and embellished for the grand lives that they all deserved. Thorin looked upon the fur tapestries and plush rugs spun with silver thread and saw his families history embroidered in the most subtlest of places, from a mounted sword to a line of battle marks on a stone wall. He saw the menacing pillars that held the mountain up, the carved faces of his past cousins looming far over him in the dark, and he looked away ashamedly. _He had been such a fool._ Thorin was lost in his self loathing for quite a bit of time, his eyes hammering holes into anyone that dared to step near him, and after an hour of hopelessly glaring at the floor, Balin approached him. “Is there something I can help you with?” He asked hesitantly. “It seems like you've something on your mind.”

Thorins eyes seemed empty as he looked up to her friend. _“Ten years,_ Balin. I've been so lost in my own mind for so _long_. I couldn't think, I d-didn't...” Thorin bit back his words. “Have you spoken to them, Balin? Have you any word of where the company is?” Thorins very soul creaked, like a door henge that hadn't been oiled. He felt rust flaking off and the metal of it bending, and with everything he could muster, Thorin _pushed._ The cage his soul had been inside was being peeled open and slowly, _very slowly,_ he was being freed.

Balin seemed to roll his words around in his mind, tasting them. “The company has written, yes, but I haven't thought it wise to bring it up, sire.” Balin decided, folding his hands in front of him. Thorin looked hopelessly up at him, like a child waiting to be scolded, but no reproach came.

“Are they well?”

Balin nodded. “Yes, they're all quite well. The company stayed together, and they live near each other. Gloin's wife fell ill and died some time ago, but Gimli lives with them now.” He tested, and at Thorin's nod, he continued. “From what I hear, they live in a lovely location, with lots of land to farm and supplies to, well, _supply._ They've all become quite well payed in their own jobs.” If there was a gleam in the old mans eye, then Thorin couldn't say he noticed.

“Where is Bilbo?”

There was silence for a second, before Balin cleared his throat. “They carried him back to the Shire in a wagon, sire.”

Thorin nodded, his head hollow. This was not what was supposed to happen at all. Bilbo should have become the richest hobbit to ever live, his hobbit hole decorated in the finest dwarven embellishments that ever existed. Thorin felt disgusted in himself. Bilbo should still be alive, breathing and happy, but he was buried somewhere in the Shire, rotting away and being eaten by worms. 

Thorin groaned, and gazed around his hall, seeing the merry faces and the curious eyes of other dwarrows. He could hear the sounds of the metal working coming from the heart of the mountain as his subjects worked on swords and other products, the best craftsmanship in the world, being created right under his feet. His kingdom was thriving, and surely, it would run just fine without him.

“I'll be going to pay my respects, Balin. Ready a horse, I want to leave within the hour.”

 

~~

Dis helped Thorin pack and kissed his cheek goodbye when he left. She seemed better than when she had returned, seeing as she had talked with Balin while Thorin had been brooding. It turns out that she had been called here by Balin, who, in every effort, had been trying over the years to get her to return. She refused though, waiting for her sons to come home to her, to escort her there, and Balin hadn't the nerve to tell her that they had left Erebor. He eventually succumbed, telling her exactly what had happened, and she had left immediately, Durin stubbornness forgotten. 

She was to run the kingdom while Thorin was away, her immunity to gold-sickness a mighty fine trait to have, and Thorin promised her that when his business was done he _would_ bring her sons back home.

Dis hugged him, and together, Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin departed.

It was a long hard road ahead of the dwarves, in which Balin and Dwalin never ceased their chatting, cooking and talking with the king as if they were all still soldiers in Thrain's army. Thorin replaced his finely crafted robes for a few tunics, stronger and more durable than any article the company had had on their last journey.

Thorin spent much of the ride silent, sitting high in his saddle or facing away from his companions, but he couldn't help his need to let the storm in his mind rumble. He was so ashamed, so utterly horrified at what he had done, and Thorin knew he would never be able to forgive himself. But just now, he needed his nephews, and his friends, back in his home, in _their_ home, where they could all try to reconnect the ties that had once been stronger than mithril.

Thorin, on one of these nights, realized that he had come close to breaking through the sickness a few times before his sisters success. He'd seen visions of the dragons body still lit like a furnace, the radiation from it melting the gold down to cascade around him, swallowing him whole. He'd almost woken then, and again when his mind saw his jewels stacking themselves into the shape of a very familiar Hobbit. Thorin had nearly been shocked from his gold lust, but had instead decided to stab the hallucination over and over again with a glinting sword until Dwalin had to drag him from the chamber.

It was hard, taking this ride in the snow, but Thorin found himself numb to anything other than his thoughts. It was too much, but Thorin had to keep on. When passing through Greenwood, Thorin stopped to offer greetings to Thranduil, who had become his kingdoms ally since the battle, if only through their prosperous trade routes. The elven king had been surprised to see him, and surprised further when he heard that Thorin was traveling to see the hobbits grave. The elven king supplied him with food, water, and a nights shelter.

When he offered off some guards to take with him, Thorin was against the idea immediately, but seeing the soft gleam in Balin's eye and the tired curve to Dwalin's brow, Thorin relented. He was sure that he would appreciate it later. One elf, he recognized as the lady Tauriel, and the other one as Legolas, the prince.

This trip had become much more pressured.

 

~~

Thorin rounded the last hill, taking a full, pain-filled look at the Shire. The last time he had been there, he had been leaving Bilbo's home in the early hours of the dawn, and now, here he was pushing through the snow to say his goodbye. They snapped their ponies over the narrow walk ways, and Thorin stopped at the gate just outside the edge of the shire. There was a small hobbit running around the yard, his short brown curls flaked with cold. “Excuse me, young one.” Thorin called, and when the boy turned, he tried to smile. “Could you tell me where—” Thorin gulped, “where Mr. Baggins is buried?”

The boy pointed them down the walk, following the outskirts of the Shire. “He's buried in the cemetery, just around the bend.”

Thorin thanked him, and the trio continued on.

The cemetery wasn't large, nor was it filled with many gravestones, but the atmosphere around it was set in that of a grim remembrance. Thorin trekked through the snow, breaking the tranquil peace of the ground with his boot prints. His breath tumbled from him like a cloud, and Thorin let out one, long sigh as he found the grave stone, half concealed with snow, that stuck from the ground. _B. Baggins_ was very predominately gazing back at him as the king fell to his knees.

Thorin's eyes closed, and it was there that he saw _Bilbo's hesitant smile as he ran down the forest path, his eyes wide and awake with a light that he had not seen in anyone in a very long while. He'd smiled faintly back to the hobbit as he was set down onto a pony, and Thorin had sat regally, trying to look every inch as sturdy as a king should look._

_ Bilbo's hands shook as he held his small sword for the first time, because surely, this small hobbit had never had to bear such a weapon. Thorin had remembered watching from afar, seeing the gleam of a challenge in the burglars eyes, but also the unrelenting fear.  _

_Thorin wasn't sure if anyone else knew, but Bilbo's eyes shined in the night, green and blue and gray beneath the beams of the moon as they looked together upon the glowing runes. The hobbits breath had caught, standing so close to the edge of the drop off, but the hobbit was absurd to think that Thorin would ever let him fall. Thorin had put a protective hand on Bilbo's shoulder then, easing the hobbits worries of falling to his death from the elven rampart._ Thorin's stomach dropped again, but he could not be sick over Bilbo's grave. He couldn't, no, not here... but it was then that he realized that the very hands that had protected Bilbo from falling from the drop-off had thrown Bilbo over the parapet.

Thorin remembered, dully, _the feeling of Bilbo's cold hands as he passed off supplies or a warm bowl of stew. Those hands, that had wielded Sting, the mighty elven letter opener, against Azog the Defiler. The hands that had clutched onto his coat when he'd been hanging from the mountain top._

If Thorin could listen through his own heavy breathing _, he could hear the steady voice carrying stories over the fire, the hobbit-tales being spun out for the entertainment of the company. Thorin heard Bilbo's voice vouching for his honor, and calling his name as they trekked through the wilderness. There was a buttery sweet lick to Bilbo's giggles that had always enticed the king,_ and every inch of him craved to have it back. He needed to hear the hobbit breathlessly laughing or sputtering at something crude that had been said. Thorin just wanted the hobbit back.

Thorin would trade his entire kingdom for the chance to have Bilbo back. He would trade his right to walk to the halls of Mahal, and would do anything in his power to keep the many dangers that seemed to revolve around Bilbo _._

And so much danger there was, for such a fragile thing. To think, that a hobbit no taller than his shoulder had faced giant spiders and men and elves and a feisty shape shifter and a fire breathing dragon and _—and Thorin, himself._ To think that a polite little hobbit had shifted everything he'd known upside down without rhyme nor reason.

All because he was presented with an adventure.

_ An adventure that had ended in his death. _

Thorin begged forgiveness, begged the heavens, to Mahal and to wherever the hobbit had gone, for his friends soul not to be so very angry with him. He pressed his hands to the gravestone, wanting to hug the hobbit, to cover him in all the finest threads and treasure, to fill him with the most succulent of meals and to buy him the largest and most softest bed in all of Middle Earth. Thorin wanted to watch the hobbit embroider a silken cloth or a sturdy cloak, turning the used, ragged thing into that of excellence. Thorin wanted to hear the click of knitting needles as the hobbit showed Ori a new pattern, or the soft padding of the hobbits feet across his stone kingdom.

Thorin _wanted his friend back_.

He must have spent the good part of an hour there, stooped in front of the grave with a very far-off look to his eye. But this is what he needed, wasn't it? The king ached for release, to have his emotions filed into some semblance of order, and this was how it would be done, right? He needn't only say good bye to the hobbit, and that would be that.... _wouldn't it_?

Balin had walked his pony deeper into the Shire, wishing to find a place for them to sleep and resupply before their journey home. Dwalin stayed a bit away, knowing the safety of the Shire and the privacy that his king needed. The elves seemed content in sitting in the tree above Dwalin, trading a few cards in a game that Thorin didn't know.He unashamedly thankful for their understanding. When he finally found his legs, Thorin was tired and unsteady; tired of crying, tired from riding, and tired of thinking. He nearly wished he could have his gold sickness back, to be numb of the pooling emotions in him, but every thought that touched on the subject felt nauseated and rotten, and Thorin would not make the same mistake twice.

“... Uncle?”

 

~~

_ Kili had burned his hands trying to get down the rope fast enough, but he could already see the others crowding around Bilbo, his very closest friend besides his brother, and he couldn't fathom to even think about what the prince would find when he reached the hobbit. His boots hit the ground, and he rushed to Bilbo, a few elves, one being the prince himself, trying to stop him. They surely thought that he was there to attack their Thranduil, but Kili had no such intentions. The elves grabbed at him, but he shouted for them to stop,  _ please _, that he needed to get through to see his friend. A lady elve, Tauriel, stopped their hastiness, and soon, he was before the hobbit._

_ It was a brutal scene to take in; the bloodied hobbit. Kili felt helpless as he saw the bruised cheeks, the bloodied temple, the scruffed feet... all done by his kin's hand.  _ Please, please, Bilbo, stay strong, _he prayed. Kili didn't know what to do,the blood was seeping into the stone, Gandalf already chanting under his breath magical words. Thranduil was calling for medics, and the more Kili thought, the more angry he became._

_ Bofur joined him, and then Bifur and Bombur and Oin and Gloin and the Ri brothers. They all stood together, and when Gandalf called for Bilbo to be moved, they formed a harsh circle around him. The hobbit was carried forward by Kili himself, Fili joining him with a stern look, and they stepped away from their kingdom once again. _

_ Kili remembered jumping at every sound as they waited for Bilbo to be looked over. Oin helped the elven medics, and the rest of them paced before the tent, Kili's tunic soaked through with Bilbo's blood. The hobbit had been so  _ cold _, and so devilishly still. Bilbo wasn't able to breath, his rib cage cracked and his head split open when it had hit the concrete. The dwarrows prayed together, hoping for their friend to be saved._

_ Bilbo's heart stopped beating an hour later, right before the battle started. _

Kili looked upon his uncle for the first time in ten years, unable to clearly grasp the concept before him.

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, brother to his mother, Lady Dis, was red eyed and pale, swaying in the light snow on hobbit-land. The mighty King under the Mountain wore no jewels or capes, only a thick tunic and a warm fur coat that stuck out against the snow. Kili's heart caught in his throat, and for a moment, he felt relieved to see his uncle, relieved that he wasn't holing himself up in his treasury and counting the doubloons that probably still reeked of dragon.

And then came the  _anger._

Kili had been carrying logs back home from a neighbors, and he dropped the wood to the frozen ground. “ _You_ !” He hissed, and Kili's eyes darkened as he looked to his kin. “Why are you here?” He demanded harshly. He had clearly taken Thorin by surprise, but Kili felt his blood boiling, seeing the man who had thrown Bilbo from the parapet, seeing the man who had traded his friends, his kin, for a precious stone. He took a few predatory steps forward, a growl rising low in his throat. “After what you did, after all  _we_ had done for you, you have the gall to show your face,  _here of all places—_ ” Kili was almost upon him, and if the tears on his uncles cheeks made him slow, well then, no one was there to witness it. He shoved his finger accusingly at his uncles nose. “Why are you here?” He demanded again.

Kili was suddenly yanked back, his brothers voice stern but calm in his ear. The brunette knew that he had been about to snap; to break his uncles nose firmly with his fist, and yank him by his hair out of Hobbiton. Fili soothed him with nice words, but he felt the rigidness in his shoulders. Kili knew his brother was pissed, and probably had the same vision as he.

Their commotion riled a few hobbits in a smial nearby, and one short, unruly haired boy ran down the lane, unseen by the dwarves. Tauriel, Legolas, and Dwalin were suddenly behind the king, andThorin put a hand up, as if he were going to reach for his nephews. “I—” he started, but was quickly cut off.

“You _what_?!” Kili screeched. “Wanted to come collect more hobbits to throw from your balcony, _hm_?” he demanded, breaking free from his brothers arms to stare down their uncle. Thorin flinched and turned away, his stare ashamed and hurt, and honestly, Kili wanted only to be rid of him.

When Thorin's eyes reached again for his nephews, they were not alone. In fact, the entire company, minus Bofur and Gloin, stood behind Kili and Fili, their eyes a mixture of awe and outrage. Thorin clenched his jaw, and Kili doubled it.

“ _Why. Are. You. Here?”_

 

~~

Thorin needed to hold his nephews, to feel their heart beats on his skin and their laughter in the air. It was so very,  _very_ hard to look them in the eye, when he himself knew that they had every right to be angry with him. It had been his fault for endangering them and his fault for lying. He had not told a single one of them about the dangers of the dragon-sickness, though Balin surely knew and Bilbo had seemed to figure it out.

He had jeopardized his families safety for a stone.

“I came...” Thorin uttered, trying to look them all squarely in the eye. “I came to pay my respects.”

“ _Liar._ ” Kili rumbled, eyes like murder.

Thorin stepped forward, his face earnest.  _Please please please, Mahal_ , Thorin pleaded. “I had dragon-sickness, Kili.” Thorin rasped, his voice shaking. There were mumbles from the company, but Thorin couldn't tear his eyes from his nephew. “I was claimed by the gold, by the wealth, and I would have done anything to keep it all.”

Kili spat. “You did enough to ensure it.”

“Please, Kili, _please_ understand. Dragon-sickness takes ones mind, and nothing anyone could have done would have stopped it from claiming me.”

Kili scoffed. “Then how have you come here, if you're so sick by your gold?” he demanded.

Thorin placed a careful hand on his nephews shoulder, trying to coax calm from the brunette, but Kili only threw the hand off of him, fuming. Thorin sighed heavily, his chest constricting. “Your mother came to Erebor,” he said dryly. “She beat the sense into me, and I gave her the Arkenstone, and asked her to watch the castle. She is there now.”

At this, Kili stilled, color and all draining from his face. Fili and Kili had not seen there mother since they left with Thorin in search of their families birthplace. They had gone off into the fray of the adventure without so much as a question against their motives. Of course, the boys wanted to see their mother.

“Is she well?” Fili asked carefully.

“She is extremely angry, but she is fine. _Worried,_ more than anything, but fairing well.” The boys nodded, their eyes searching the ground.

Dori, his braids still the same that they had been for decades, stepped forward. “If your intentions are truly untainted now, then swear to us. Swear on your throne that you did not come here to hurt or betray or upset.” The dwarve said, and Thorin nodded vigorously.

Immediately, he bent to one knee, drawing his head down as far as he could. “I swear on my throne, on my body and soul, that I have no ill intentions.” There were many nods, and many skeptical looks, but a dwarves sworn oath cannot be taken lightly, and they were always kept.

“So, mother sent you out for us, aye?” Fili asked, and his eyes twinkled. Thorin had missed those laugh lines, and the eyes that were much like his mothers.

He shook his head honestly. “She didn't.” He breathed. “We had no idea where you'd gone after the war. We were to begin the search upon my return to Erebor.”

“Then why have you come to the Shire?” Ori asked.

“I came to pay my respects.” Thorin asked, his eyes darkening. “I am... I am so ashamed for what the sickness made me do.” Thorin rasped. His heart clenched again, and all the tears he had shed already seemed to replenish themselves. “It was not until a month ago that I woke from the sickness and realized what I had done. By then, I knew it was too late, but I—I had to...” he trailed off, turning back to the grave stone. _B. Baggins_ glinted up at him.

_ He missed the shocked intake of breath from many of those around him. He missed the shared looks, the knowing looks, the hidden movement of a secret in their body language... _

“Come, Uncle. Out of the cold.” Fili said, taking him by the shoulder. There was a tremor in his hands, yes, but Thorin could not feel the wind on his skin. To Thorins dismay, they returned to Bag End, and his stomach clenched at the thought. “We've been living here.” Kili explained as he opened the door and stepped in.

Thorin did not deserve to stand in these halls, he'd decided. He did not deserve to rest his pack on the smooth floors, or smell the faint scene of peppermint and smoke from a pipe.

Nothing much had changed about the small home, except that there was a new wooden shoe rack next to the door where a line of boots were set neatly in a row; more hooks were provided for coats to be hung and a new kitchen table with matching mahogany chairs had replaced the older, smaller one. Thorin bowed into the home, and watched as each of the company came in, hanging coats and removing boots and nestling into spots that seemed to have become their own. Thorin remembered from his last stay here that there were many guest rooms, as was a custom among hobbits. Each dwarf had a room, though the siblings in the group were prone to sharing the larger ones. Fili and Kili shared a room, as did Dori and Ori, and Nori shared a room with Oin since Gloin lived in a cottage down the way. Bofur and Bombur shared a room, but Bifur preferred to be alone. Balin and Dwalin were given a room to share, and Thorin was able to dump his packs and furs in another.

He met the others in the sitting room, where many larger chairs had been moved in. Thorin could tell that it would not be the same as old days. In fact, he did not even talk much, rather he listened to Dwalin and Balin catching up with their— _still—_ very good friends. They all sat together, whether on love seats or rocking chairs or sofas, and there was a short span of time where they all went through the tedious task of small talk.

“So the weather is good, aye?”

“A bit cold for me, but its nice, yes.”

“And Erebor? Is it cold?”

“Not as bad, lad, but the stone holds the chill.”

“And Dis, how is she?”

“As fiery as ever.”

Tauriel had been very interested in this exchange, while Legolas decided to stand in the kitchen, listening none the less. She sat on the ground, too tall for the furniture, and smiled at them all.

“Do all hobbits live in holes?” She asked.

“Aye, and some have smials that go down into the ground for nearly a _mile_ , but those are farther north. We've only two stories here.”

“Yes, yes, and the dinners are separated. Families eat together, but only parents and children and such. They only gather together for feasts on holidays.”

“That's silly!” Dwalin rebuked. “Family should eat together every night!”

“Yes, well many hobbits spend different meals together. There are six meals a day, and they are very important!”

“ _Six!”_ Balin exclaimed. “That's so much food for such little people!”

“Yes, but they're nice enough around here that we try not to mess with their customs too much.”

“Do dwarves and hobbits often live together?”

“No, lass, but we've made a family here.”

“And Bilbo's family? How are they fairing?” Balin asked, and suddenly there was only silence. Thorin looked away, gagging on bile that reeled into his mouth like a bull on a rampage. _Bilbo's family._ He had thought of Bilbo's family, of course, but _Mahal_ , he had not thought of them having to bury him, having to go through a mourning faze, having to say goodbye to the good natured hobbit.

“They are well enough, and we've met a great number of them.” Oin said thoughtfully. “There are Baggins' and Took's and Proudfeet, or _Proudfoots_ , and Brandybucks, and all sorts of relations here in the Shire.”

“Aye!” Kili said. “They've a whole slew of cousins and aunts and such, living right here on the lane! Even more across the way, over the river and through the woods, and all that.”

Tauriel laughed heartily. “Hobbits are strange indeed. And very  _little,_ but polite and thoughtful. I don't think I could ask for a better group.”

Kili smiled at her. “They're amazing; no real currency, so they use small silver coins, and they're willing to trade for their resources! Food and books are more important than wealth and stature, here. Its... Well, its incredible.” The young prince had his eyes locked onto the elven lady, and their eyes may have lingered longer on each other than some may have ventured to share, but no one spoke of it. 

And still, Thorin didn't notice the exchange; he found his stomach clenching and his nerves dancing as if they were on fire. He vaguely heard Fili asking him if he was feeling alright, but he couldn't answer just then. His mind was pulsing with a head ache, because everything around him was the spitting image of one Bilbo Baggins, from the hand-embroidered blankets to the white curtains to the pile of books still next to the armchair. Thorin could smell the hobbit everywhere, like a perfume of paper and sweet smoke and honey. He heard the hobbits voice lingering in the hall and the tap of his feet as he flew to and fro. Thorin held his temple with one burly hand. Green eyes swam in his mind.

The front door opened then, and from the main hallway, Bofur stepped in, removing his coat. He'd been in the middle of a rather crude joke, from the sound of it, and he stopped midsentence, one arm still in his furs, when his eyes fell upon the king.

And from just behind him, stepped a small Hobbit, of yea high, with curled, blondish hair and large green eyes. 

Bilbo Baggins, smiling giddily at the unfinished joke, stepped into the sitting room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone please tell me how this is going, here or on Tumblr. I hope you're enjoying!


	3. Chapter Three: Enough is Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, he's alive, no he doesn't remember, yes, the company is just a big group of children.  
> Guest appearances! Angry Bilbo! Something about impending tragedy...

Chapter 3:

_ The first thing he could register was the pain. There were sensations dancing on his skin and beneath his muscles like angry termites digging into his tendons. There were injuries ricocheting through him like an echo from a lightening strike, and that was not at all pleasant. Truly, every ounce of his being was doing a jig of hurt, and he  _ felt _it. His fingernails, surely, were being plucked free from his hands,and his hair was set on fire and burnt down to his scalp. It must be true then, that every single one of his bones were broken and his muscles were done up with thousands of heated pins. There must be weights pressing in on his lungs and lead sinkers bearing into his intestines._

_ Because anything less wouldn't make sense. This type of pain was immeasurable. _

_ He breathed raggedly, if at all, and the dazing slaughter grasping heartily to his mind was like a dizzying cartwheel of beatings brought on by a slight movement to his right. Just that, someone kneeling beside him it seemed, was enough to make him shake to his very core. _

_ He was very aware of the words being rumbled around him, but the voices came out like a high-ringing squall. Then, more voices, more movements, each like a volcano erupting up his spine. He felt broken; felt small and unsound and misshaped. _

_ And then he was being carried. _

_ He lost consciousness from the painful sensations running through his body. _

Before all of that, _he had known precisely who he was. His name is Bilbo Baggins, son to Bungo and Belladonna Baggins. He lives in Bag End, and is best friends with Ham Gamgee. Bilbo could tell you every shade of thread used on his great-grans quilt, and exactly how old each book was in his fathers library. The hobbit had, at one point, left to join the company. He'd made friends with every member of the company, had saved them, had been saved, had shared meals and floors and cloaks. Bilbo had been closer to these dwarves in the last year than he had with his family his entire life._

There were certain things that Bilbo couldn't remember, though, and that had him always inquisitive. 

Bilbo entered his smial, Bofur slowing to hang his coat on its designated hook. Bilbo followed suit, turning to face his living room.

He was quite taken aback when he saw another dwarve sitting in his armchair, but he smiled none the less. He hadn't known that they would be having company for supper, but he'd bought extra food anyways. Dwarves had hefty appetites, and there was never such a thing as too much food. As it stood, there were two other dwarves sitting in his love seat, and two elfs peering at him with sparkling eyes, but Bilbo was not one to fuss about something such as company.

He stepped into the room, his eyes meeting a pair of illustrious blue ones. There, _right there,_ was a breath of something he knew, a sample of wine he had tasted before. There was something that ghosted over him when he took in the ragged looking dwarve, the careful twin braids, the striking silver streak that went through his hair. Bilbo _knew_ this man. Knew the blue tunic and calloused hands and bearded chin.

Bilbo had pictures in his notebook of this dwarrow, and those eyes surely had been the one to haunt his dreams. In any manner, though, he couldn't summon where he knew him from and there were still introductions to be made.

“Bilbo Baggins.” The hobbit greeted, bowing at his middle. “At your service.”

The dwarve with blue eyes looked pained, as if he were injured or hard of breathing and Bilbo frowned. Was his guest hurt? Was this dwarve in need of medical assistance? He made to take a step forward right when his guest stood abruptly, a hesitant arm stretched out towards the hobbit.

_ Everyone moved at once. _

Kili, Fili, and Bofur were moving Bilbo back into the kitchen, where the very tall, very hunched blonde elf was pulling another equally tall, equally hunched ginger elf in by her willowy arms. Bombur and Oin had large hands pushing the guest down into his seat, and from his place wedged between the three dwarves guiding him, Bilbo could just catch a glimmer of furious blue eyes looking after him with shock and... regret?

 

~~

Thorin couldn't believe his eyes, couldn't believe what he had just seen. _Who_ he had just seen. _Bilbo_ green eyes _Bilbo_ careful smile _Bilbo_ light curls _Bilbo_ _Bilbo Bilbo_ Bilbo—

“Bilbo's alive?” Thorin breathed. He still had two heavy hands holding him down in the chair, and he watched with dismay as Bilbo was led out of his line of vision. He couldn't sit still, and he kept trying to stand, but Bombur and Oin were pushing his body into the seat cushion. “Why hadn't anyone told me?”

Nori and Dori had stern, reproachful looks. “There were things we had to know first, Thorin. Things we had to make sure of, and things we have to tell you if you were to talk with Bilbo.” Dori said.

' _If'_ , Thorin growled at. _Bilbo is alive! He's breathing!_ Thorin hadn't murdered his friend after all, and with that, a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders. Thorin had tears stinging his eyes, whether from relief or anger he couldn't quite decipher. But who cared? _Bilbo is alive!_ He turned to Balin, “Why have you kept this from me? I could have been repaying him, explaining my actions!”

Thorin went to stand again, to follow his hobbit, to throw himself on the ground and beg forgiveness, to cut his beard from his face and give it to Bilbo as a trophy, to— — but he was pushed down by a furious Nori. “Now, see here!” He huffed. “You've _hurt_ Bilbo, Thorin. You _nearly killed him—”_

“ _Do you think I haven't realized that—?”_

“ _It's been ten years!”_ Ori cut him off. “You can't just come here unannounced after what you've done! You've missed so much, _caused_ too much, and now you're here as if nothing has changed!”

“ _Please,_ ” Thorin begged. “It was the sickness, I swear it was, and things _have_ changed! _I've changed_. Its gone from me now, I swear to it.” He gazed to the dwarves surrounding him, to Oin and Bifur and Bombur and the Ri brothers... They all gazed at him, some with fury, some with pity. But they all seemed to be on the other side of this battle.

But they were right. Thorin had caused so much... he'd told Bilbo he was useless, that the stone was worth more than he was and—

Thorin groaned, his stomach churning again as he remembered the blood stain on his door step.

“Bilbo's come out of it alright.” Oin soothed, somehow knowing where his kings mind had turned.

“We know you don't mean to hurt him,” Bombur added.

“But you might hurt him unconsciously, and we just want to tread carefully.” Ori finished, eyes searching his former king.

Thorin clutched at their shirts, a hobbit fashion, by the wear, and looked into their eyes. “I'll do anything.” He breathed. “Until a few moments ago, I thought him dead, and I can't go through losing him again. I just _can't.”_ The hands on him let go when he bent over, his face falling into his hands. Thorin's head was spinning and he wanted to just lay down die. He needed energy, needed food and ale and a plush bed to allow his mind a rest, but all of those seemed alien to him, the comfort seemed too much to understand. 

Thorin hadn't a clue what they were going on about. They had to tell him something about Bilbo? Was there something wrong with him? Was he dying? Was he in danger?

“I've brought tea.” a soft voice came and when he looked up, there was Bilbo. His light curls were bouncing and his face was still flushed from the bitter wind outside. Thorin had never seen this expression on the hobbit, not this happy blissful edged in defiance. Thorin had only ever seen Bilbo's eyes _wide with terror, his mouth agape as they faced another group of Orcs. Or the worried look one has in their sleep when they're being chased, as if you're not really in the dream lands, only shutting their eyes for a few moments of relief._ Thorin had seen _the hobbit worry at his bottom lip when making decisions in that sharp brain of his, or scared out of his wits, brows up and teeth clattering and tears running down his face._

Thorin liked the little sarcastic smile.

He gave a cup of tea to each in the room, and Thorin was happy to have something to wrap his shaking fingers around. The liquid was sweet and melted languidly down his throat, and Thorin found that with the tea came calmness.

Bilbo set the tray down on a spare table, wiping his hands on a stark white apron. “Will you be staying for dinner, then?” he asked expectantly.

“If its not too much of a bother.” Thorin rasped. _Was this truly happened? Bilbo was serving him tea, smiling at him, having him over for dinner... was Thorin still breathing?Was this a joke?_

“Nonsense!” Bilbo rebuked. “Any dwarve is welcome here.” he smiled, picking the tray back up to return it to the kitchen. He stepped lightly on the floor, unlike the heavy stomps that had been produced by Thorins socks, his boots having been set on the rack by the door. Bilbo turned, and Thorin marveled in the fact that _Bilbo was still alive_. Truly, this was a miracle.

Something came over Bilbo's eyes, and Thorin shifted in his seat. _Is this where the charade would end? Where Bilbo would acknowledge what Thorin had done?_ Thorin nearly vomited, the quizzical look on the hobbits face doing nothing but toying with the dwarves gut. Bilbo seemed to hesitate before speaking. “I'm terribly sorry.” He started, “But I've just realized that I hadn't caught your name.”

 

~~

Bilbo was leaning over the kitchen sink, peeling a mountain of potatoes with a professionals ease. He'd been quite shocked to be rushed into his kitchen after the introduction mishap, Fili and Kili hauling him by the elbows with malicious grins eating at their faces.

“Dinners not even started, Bilbo!”

“Yes! However are we going to be well rested for tomorrow if we don't have one of your marvelous suppers?”

Bilbo agreed, if only because he was a full foot off the ground. He'd nodded to the boys, patting their shoulders as they left. Strange boys, if ever there were any.

The hobbit decided to go all out, with tarts, puddings, cakes, nuts, grams, and doughs. He was making mashed potatoes, tots, slices, wedges, fries. There would be steak and pork and fish smothered in spices. Ale would be served and wine and cider, and Bilbo would be darned if he let a guest grace his house without tasting his mothers quail and dumplings. The elves, Tauriel and Legolas, had stayed with him in him kitchen, Tauriel kneeling beside him to help with the peeling while the other decided to clean his knives at the table.

Bilbo was happy for the company, and every once and a while Tauriel would pipe up with a question about hobbit culture.

“Is that traditional Hobbit garb?” She would ask, gesturing to his white button down and waist coat. He would chuckle and nod. “And do all hobbits go barefoot?” She beamed at his feet, admiring the little sun tanned digits. Bilbo would laugh heartily again, and answer yes, they all went barefoot. “And these _smi-als..._ why are they built in the ground?”

Bilbo smiled up at her. “You see, they're usually built by a male Hobbit, to show affection towards their chosen partner, whether through an arranged marriage or by his own choosing. We're very... _traditional_ creatures, us hobbits. To show our future partners that we can provide for them, we build them homes. They are carved into hills to show that their love is as natural as the rolling lands, and will keep you warm from the winters with hearty soil.” He looked around his homely kitchen, admiring the hand carved counters and the special accent each wall was adorned with. “My father built this smial for my mother.” He sighed, turning back to his peeling.

Tauriel was quite for a moment, and she too looked around the smial, seeing it clearly for the first time. When she looked back to Bilbo, he was humming that same tune again, his fingers wrapped around a small pairing blade.

“You don't remember me do you, Master Baggins?” Turning, Bilbo set his eyes on the lady elve. Of course, she was familiar. It seemed that everyone was always _familiar._ Bilbo could only shake his head with a regretful smile. Tauriel smirked. “That's alright. We weren't exactly friends, but I'd like to say we had an appreciation for one another. I hadn't expected you would recall it, anyways, not after what had happened.”

“Ah, yes.” Bilbo chuckled. “My slip off the mountain side. Very clumsy of me.” He said bemusedly, but his smile was evident still. He caught the look Tauriel gave him, knew that that was surprise and disbelief and untold questions. She returned his smile though, hesitantly, and Bilbo let his own questions fall. He was still peeling potatoes, humming the soft tune he didn't quiet remember... But what did he remember, _really_?

Bilbo had accepted quite a while ago that he couldn't remember anything of the adventure he heard his dwarves talking of. He knew, of course, that something awful had happened, seeing as he woke with scars he didn't have before and a pain shooting up his spine that shouldn't have been there until old age took over his nerves.

Bilbo had accepted that these dwarves were his friends, allowing them to live with him and share his parents home. He knew very well that they seemed to know him better than anyone else, and they cared for him when he was recovering as if they truly were his family. That must have been... oh, 8 years ago at least. To say the least, he'd woken very confused, not knowing the faces around him or why they were in his home or why his skin felt foreign to him. Bilbo made a point to tell every single one of them off for being in his bedchamber, but many of them had tears streaming down their faces and smiles plastering their faces, and he hadn't the nerve to put any real heat in his scolding.

He remembers being hugged by these strangers, strangers that later would become his family. Yes, that year for him had been quite odd. His marks had healed and the pain had ceased, his friends had stayed by his side, and the only thing left for Bilbo to do was remember.

Except, he couldn't just summon up memories that didn't want to be found. Bilbo couldn't retrieve anything after his 33rd birthday. He'd been told that he'd left with the company just after turning 39, had returned home at age 40, had woken from his reverie at 42, and now, with his 49th birthday having just passed on September the 22nd, Bilbo was feeling every ounce his age. The dwarves that he had become so close to had spoon fed him details from their trip, but Bilbo knew they were watering it down for him. He wanted more answers, craved explanations for the scars maring his scalp and limbs or the blade that he had put in his mothers glory box. He wanted to know where he'd gotten the strange clothes he'd seen tucked into his dresser and the peculiar golden ring that he'd found beneath his bed. Bilbo did try to remember, but there was something missing from the tales that Bofur told. _They were keeping something from him._

But, oh well. This was his family now, and Bilbo was happy for the company they provided.

He was brought from his reverie by a rather loud shout. “Why doesn't he know my name? What kind of spell is he under?” The new one, Thorin, had demanded. Bilbo was pulled from his thoughts as the voices beyond the kitchen grew louder.

“You have to understand, Thorin, that the fall wasn't easy to recover from.” Oin explained. “He recovered swimmingly, but only after he'd woken up. Bilbo was unconscious for over 2 years... we thought he would never wake up. He doesn't even remember the journey, or the elves, or Erebor.”

_ Erebor _ . There was a tickle to his mind. That sounded foreign, and familiar, in one small stroke of a finger. Bilbo could almost smell iron and feel an unmistakable heat raising on his shoulders, but he blamed that on the iron skillet sizzling over the fire.

“He remembered none of us, including you, Uncle. He doesn't remember the war or the orcs or the spiders, so _please_ , don't say anything to him.” Fili begged, and Bilbo hummed a bit skeptically.

Bilbo was not an idiot, and he was quite good at playing games. If his dwarves wanted to keep things, then so be it, but if one more of them talked behind his back or treated him like a child... well, Bilbo felt much stronger than he had in a long time.

 

~~

Thorin's breath caught in his throat.

Two years? Two years Thorin had been wallowing in his gold lust while Bilbo lay in a comatoseness. Two years Thorin had ordered the building of his kingdom while his company took care of the hobbit who by the day became paler and sicker. He'd been a big ball of angst and rebellion when Bilbo couldn't even open his eyes, couldn't speak or eat much more than broth? Thorins mind reeled. _Bilbo gaunt and malnourished, skin tight and lips blue as he breathed in shallow cycles._ No, no no, Thorin shook his head.

Bilbo was in the kitchen, he could make out his shadow moving on the floor, silhouetted before the fire. The house smelled of sweet meats and sugary jams, and Thorin could catch a whiff of Bilbo _everywhere._ Parchment, ink stains, and pipe weed were all like a kiss to his nose. Bilbo was in the powdery smell on the cushions and the cloying soap scent that stuck to every one of the dwarves around him. Thorin had only _two_ minutes with the hobbit after ten years of separation, and he was famished for more time. Thorin craved the hobbits presence more than any coin, any kingdom, and _silly_ stone that had ever graced this planet. He would take his company back to Erebor, and he'd kidnap Bilbo if he had—

No he wouldn't. He couldn't hurt the hobbit in such a way, not again. But he would have Bilbo as a regular in his life, if he could. 

Tauriel came in then, and Thorin gripped the reins of his mind. “Supper is ready.”

 

~~

Bilbo sat with the same company he had for 8 years. He had the same smiling faces there to ask after his readings and how his new embroideries were coming along, and Gloin had brought Gimli over as well. He had gentle questions asked about his recipes, and _Mahal_ , did he make that cake himself? Bilbo only chuckled, their flattery having seeped into him long ago. He learned, quite early on his sharing his home with them that dwarves showed their appreciation through compliments. If you were an iron worker, your craft was _complimented._ If you were a farmer, your food was _praised._ Bilbo, though he was already used to it, still flushed with pride.

But these new dwarves, ones who had obviously been a part of his year long escapade away from home, were quiet for most of the meal. The blue eyed one drank his cider and ate his meal, but only ever really spoke to answer the others questions. He listened attentively, and had round, shiny eyes, like that of a child.

“Oh!” Bilbo remembered, his eyes darting around him. “I nearly forgot! My cousin Drogo will be coming into town in just an hour to share evening tea! How silly of me to forget!” Bilbo remembered the letter he'd received just that afternoon, but with the rallying of his dwarves and Thorin's arrival, he had not remembered at all. Bilbo wiped his hands on a napkin, gathering the empty plates around him to get a head start on the dishes. He bowed a bit, a quick _excuse me_ dropping from his lips before he was off to wash the many pans and bowls he'd used to make their meal.

He heard them start a heated conversation as soon as his foot over stepped the threshold to the kitchen and knew very well that it was about him, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Bilbo was too preoccupied scrubbing and washing and scraping to pay any attention to their silly secrets.

_ That is, he wouldn't've payed attention had they not been speaking so bloody loud. _

“...might hurt him...”

“I wouldn't want that...”

“...wouldn't let...”

“Quiet!”

“...doesn't remember...”

“...can't force him to understand.”

“He's too young... only 50!”

“He's middle aged in hobbit years.”

“... can't hurt him like that.”

Bilbo only caught the few snippets, but he was already riled. The gall of them!

Bilbo set his dishes down heatedly. He could do without all the chatter, and these youngster’s treating him like a babe that needed his diaper changed was wearing quickly on him. Granted, yes, even Gimli was older than Bilbo, already being 62 years old, but proportionatly, he was the elder! Damn those dwarrows and their life expectancies!

Tauriel watched, eyes twinkling with mischief from her seat at his counter where her and the elven prince had decided to eat. Bilbo dried his hands as they folded into fists. He stomped into his dining room.

“Enough!” He scolded, and the room quickly went quiet. “No more of this. We'll be sitting down like respectable adults after this evenings tea; no excuses, no pardons.” His eyes were that of an angry parent, and Bilbo's sneer could have silenced any naughty child in the whole of Middle Earth. “Now, I'd very much appreciate it if you'd stop talking about me behind my back. If any of you have anything to say, say it now, or else prepare your words for after tea because I'll have no more of this allusive game!”

“Uncle Bilbo is angry!” Gimli oggled.

Bilbo cleared his throat. “Quite right, lad.”

He went to march back to his kitchen, and Ori followed after him trying his hardest to calm the hobbit.

“No! I'll not be toyed with, Ori!” Bilbo reproached. “I thought that after the blooding I would have earned enough respect to know the truth, not the bluther you've been spoon-feeding me this last decade.” At the shocked looks, he scoffed. “Oh, come now. An infant would have realized they'd been being lied to, what with the story being changed over and over. _You slipped, you tripped, you landed on enough grass not to kill you, you landed on an elf._ Please!” Bilbo rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, returning to the kitchen where he furiously took up his towel to dry his dishes. “Dwarves.” He spat, knuckles digging into the metal of his skillet.

Legolas gave a curt chortle. “You seem at your wits end, Master Baggins.”

“Indeed.” Bilbo huffed in reply, and he would have gone farther into a little rant had he not heard a commotion coming from his dining hall.

“Blooding? Who _blooded_ with him?” Dwalin, the taller tattooed dwarve, asked heatedly.

There was loud shouting suddenly, mostly between Nori and Thorin, but Bilbo payed no heed. As long as it didn't involve the secrets kept from him, he would be fine, and hearing the neat pitches of all the combined voices distracted him enough. Indeed, the argument was low and dangerous, and to be honest, quite funny.

“He knows what it entails—”

“Who blooded Bilbo?”

“He knew exactly what he was getting into, we explained—”

“Can you blood a hobbit? Does it count?”

“Of course it counts, you ninny!”

“ _Who blooded the hobbit?!_ ”

“But traditions! The ceremony!”

“We had the correct blade, the blood, the brothers... Tradition was followe—”

“ _WHO BLOODED BILBO?”_

Tauriels eyes moved back to his, and Bilbo chuckled. “What does it mean to be blooded, Master Baggins?” The elf asked.

“Ah, its a dwarven ceremony.” Bilbo answered. “If one feels so close to another that they decide to strengthen their bonds, then they join blood.” Bilbo gestured to a small scar in the middle of his palm. “I've been blooded with the Ri brothers. They are my kin, and I am theirs.” Tauriel nodded, her eyes shining. “That's not to say that I had the entire lot of them go through hobbit-ceremonies of family-hood. They are all my kin, on hobbit terms. They know that, and we call each other 'brother' or 'sibling' quite easily. But I suppose that traditions are different.”

“How do hobbits define being siblings?” She asked.

“Oh, the usual. Sharing meals every night, sharing a home, mending each others things. See, Hobbits don't really care for currency, but to fix another persons broken possession, _well_... that’s a true act of kindness.” He smiled, and Tauriel returned it. “We also do minor things, like braiding each others hair or reading together. I found out that braiding anothers hair is extremely personal to dwarves; that's left to very close relatives and spouses, apparently. But sibling-age here is mostly centered around spending a large amount of time in each others presence and learning mannerisms from it.”

Tauriel seemed to think on this for a long moment. “That's truly wonderful, Master Baggins.”

“Aye, and we're his favorite siblings, aren't we, Bilbo?” 

“Aye, we are, aren't we?” Came a pair of familiar voices, and Bilbo turned with a chuckle.

Tauriel gazed up from her low seat, and Bilbo saw the look of glee on her face at the two goodhearted dwarves. Bilbo only tutted at them, and continued his drying with a smirk.

“I don't play favorites.” He replied simply, “but if I did, it would be Bifur. He, at least, isn't a very loud obnoxious toddy bogger.”

“That's not fair!” Fili cried, abashed. “He can't speak Westron! You've no idea what he's saying!”

Kili sat down on the other side of Tauriel while Fili put up the dried dishes. He winked to Tauriel and offered an innocent grin to her, and Bilbo watched with knowing eyes. He nodded his approval. It seemed that _some_ good would come out of this evening after all.

 

~~

Drogo arrived later that evening, his black hair ruffled from the wind. To Bilbo's absolute delight, Primula had come along too, and they had brought their son, Frodo, who had been just a baby the last time Bilbo had seen him. Bilbo had rushed them in and hugged them, smiling from ear to ear and taking them to his smaller sitting room on the other side of the smial, wiping cold from their skin and rubbing heat into their hands with the fire he'd started for them. The tea was sweet and Bilbo let his questions run, not rudely, but enough to make his cousins chuckle. 

Drogo, in turn, had his own questions, about the dwarves and how he'd been fairing and the injury that he had sustained. Bilbo waved him off, saying that the dwarves were new family and he'd been well and that the injury was nothing, if not a little confusing with the memory loss bit.

“What are you doing all the way out here?” Bilbo asked over his cup, green eyes roaming his cousins faces. He watched Frodo scampering about the hallway, a much taller, much broader Gimli running around behind him. 

“We're off on a family adventure, you see.” Drogo said. “You've quite inspired us.”

“Yes, dear.” Primula smiled. “The family talks about how much _happier_ you are since your return. Its evident that you've changed, and... and we want to invest in some Tookish bearings, if you will.” They smiled at him, and Bilbo was dumbstruck.

They were traveling so far because of _him?_ But no, that couldn't be right. Bilbo was a respectable hobbit, who was always punctual with meals and never went anywhere without a handkerchief, who always, _always_ had enough tea for guests. He was not some hooligan that went off adventuring, because _lordy lordy_ , adventures made you late for dinner! Bilbo hadn't a clue how Gandalf had convinced him to leave his door step in the first place—or even _why_ for that matter—and Bilbo had long ago shoved those intentions into a drawer that didn't have a key to fit the lock. No, sir, not he. He would not be leaving the comfort of his home, or his armchair or his books or his garden. He most certainly would not be a spectacle for the neighbors, that of whom openly gawked when he'd risen from his comatoseness. He'd lost three years to this _adventure_ of his, and he would not risk such time again.

“Are you really certain you'd like to trifle with such things, cousin? I mean honestly, adventures aren't all they're cracked up to be. I don't even remember mine.” Bilbo said, pointing a finger to his temple. “There are more dangers that can't be imagined by us hobbits.” He warned.

Primula tutted, her wide, blue eyes abashed. “And here I thought we had discovered the true Took blood in you, Bilbo.”

Said hobbit stilled and thinned his lips. No, no, no. This was not a road for hobbits to travel. It wasn't like he, Mister Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, had had many vivid dreams of the adventure he had forgotten. His memory, most certainly, was not returning to him bit by bit his subconsciousness. He did not have drawings of the dwarve, Thorin, perfectly sketched out in his notebooks; he did not know the features he called up from a vault he didn't have the combination to.

Bilbo was not in danger of running off into the wilderness to scratch an itch that burned inside him, to adventure once again to lands unknown to him.

“I wish you a merry venture, cousins.” He finally acknowledged, his throat a bit too dry. Primula, ever the knowing mother, smiled at him, as if saying _I knew you would understand._ “Do you need any supplies? Any thing at all, I can get for you.” Bilbo added, standing from his seat in his armchair.

Primula, too, stood before him, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him warmly. “You have done so much for us already, cousin. You've accepted our wishes and have granted us good comings, and that is more than anything we could have hoped coming from our family.” She released him, her pearly teeth radiating in the fire light. “We love you, Bilbo. We always have, adventurous or not.” She added, kissing his cheek.

Biblo returned the warmth she was glowing with, and his laugh lines were evident as he praised his cousins journey. Frodo came in before long, and Bilbo had the opportunity to sit with the lad before the trio had to leave. Gimli rushed in, toy soldiers being waved around the room as he chanted _Uncle Bilbo! Uncle Bilbo!_ and soon, Frodo was rallying along with him in small chorus' of _Uncle Bilbo! Uncle Bilbo!_ Frodo was a magnificent boy, smart and cunning. Very witty, might he add. 

The hobbit laughed heartily, kissing them both square on their foreheads. When Drogo and Primula left, he was in very,  _ very  _ high spirits. He wished to hear the tales they would tell upon their return, and he said a prayer for their safety.

It was not two seconds after Bilbo closed the door behind his cousins before his mood seemingly flared, and a buzz of annoyance waved through him.

He nodded to himself. He had  _ dwarves _ to deal with.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you all have stayed awake this long, I applaud you, and I surely apologize for the many mistakes I've made. Please feel free to ah... leave some encouraging comment? Am i allowed to plead for those?  
> Any ways, we're getting through the antsy stuff and will hopefully get to the actual story part of this soon! Thank you all!  
> ~Sam


	4. Chapter Four: Snow Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo finds out the truth, and he and Thorin have a small chat in the snow.
> 
> Frodo and Gimli as new best friends!

Chapter 4:

As soon as Bilbo's cousins had come the dwarves had made themselves busy out in the cold chopping wood or gathering in the kitchen to make Bilbo's some treats _(because hobbits ate a lot and they were not about to let theirs miss a meal!)_. To Thorins complete surprise, he found dwarves sweeping up the hallway and dusting Bilbo's living room, Oin, Dori, and Kili taking care in cleaning around portraits and fine painted vases.

How much had changed in ten years?

But Thorin's eyes were searching for Balin, who he found smoking some hobbit pinch in the study while looking over some documents. Upon his entering, Balin looked up, eyes meeting his kings. There was that _damned glint,_ a sign that Thorin had finally caught onto. 

Thorin wanted to growl at it, at the mischievousness his friend had been sheltering from him. Thorin wanted to be angry, wanted to cuss at his friend in their native language and ignore the dwarrows words, but honestly Thorin wasn't feeling it. What he was feeling was sadness and exhaustion seeping into his bones.

“I expected you here sooner, lad.” Balin commented.

Thorin stared very coarsely at the ground. “I had to find you first.”

There was a low chuckle, and Balin folded his parchments up, placing it into a bag he'd carried from Erebor. He nodded for Thorin to sit in the seat before him, signaling that he was ready for the talk they had to have. How strange Thorin thought this was, for a king to be treated like this. But he was back in Hobbiton, back in the very smial that there journey had officially started, and he could only follow suit. He was not a king here. No, in fact, he was much much less than even the dirt that lay frozen outside.

“I understand now why everyone kept Bilbo's status from me while I was still sick with gold.” Thorin rasped. “I understand that I would have come after him, probably to... kill him.” Thorin cleared his throat, jaw locking. He took a few hearty breaths before continuing. “I thank you for protecting Bilbo from me, and for protecting my nephews by keeping their location hidden. What I don't understand is why you hid them _after_ the sickness was gone.”

Balin nodded, steeping his fingers. “It had come to my attention that you may not have... believed me. You were so grief stricken, not to mention weak from having the sickness lifted, and I feared it may be too much for you. And if you had believed me, you wouldn't have stopped until you reached either the boys or Bilbo. You would have ran your horse dead had we told you.” Balin cast his eyes to the fire. “No, I thought it much wiser to keep it from you, to let you find out on your own terms, and to let everything fall into place. I knew you'd find the company, and I knew they would take you to Bilbo.”

“And the grave stone?” Thorin brewed, his eyes dark and lips shaking, “Was that just a prop in this, to make me realize in full what I had done?”

“No, no, no.” Balin stopped his thoughts with an exasperated look. “That was the grave of _Bungo_ Baggin's... Bilbo's father. If you would have noticed, there was another _B. Baggins_ right next to his, a _Belladonna_ Baggins. It was his parents graves you found.”

Thorins eyes widened and his heart sank. _Mahal,_ he'd cried for a full hour over Bilbo's parents, telling them everything that had happened, everything he'd feared and wished for and wanted. He'd all but told his parents that he'd murdered their son. _Thorin begged forgiveness, begged the heavens, to Mahal and to wherever the hobbit had gone, for his friends soul not to be so very angry with him. He pressed his hands to the gravestone, wanting to hug the hobbit, to cover him in all the finest threads and treasure, to fill him with the most succulent of meals and to buy him the largest and most softest bed in all of Middle Earth. Thorin wanted to watch the hobbit embroider a silken cloth or a sturdy cloak, turning the used, ragged thing into that of excellence. Thorin wanted to hear the click of knitting needles as the hobbit showed Ori a new pattern, or the soft padding of the hobbits feet across his stone kingdom._

It was customary to dwarves to treat resting places as sacred ground where loved ones could hear and see everything. It was not uncommon to leave treats on graves, or swords and hammers to provide comfort in the after life. It was like a portal for them to speak through, to see through... and Thorin had cried his eyes raw over their graves.

Thorin dropped his aching head into his hands. What was he to do?

“Bilbo doesn't know me.” Thorin stated, already he was exhausted. He kept his eyes downcast as his stomach twisted. He deserved that, deserved not to taint the hobbits memory.

“Yes, the company had come to an agreement not tell Bilbo anything about the adventure, other than the fact that there had been one. He doesn't know anything, really, other than he has a friendship with dwarves and he was injured. Though Elrond has come to see him many times these last few years, so he knows of the elves.” At this, Thorin's eyes burned a bright cyan.

“The Elven King came to see Bilbo? You told him but not me?” Thorin demanded angrily.

Granted, that was not so far fetched. Erond had been very kind to them—the hobbit especially— and had in turn been very good friends with Bilbo's mother back when she did a turn of adventuring. 

“Elrond was the one to wake Bilbo from his comatoseness, Thorin. He has become a good friend, _to all of us_ , paying for doctors to come see that Bilbo was properly nourished when he woke, _and_ he had therapists come in to work with rebuilding the muscles after so long in sleep. He was done us all a great favor, and you should be grateful.”

And Thorin was grateful, he was _so insanely grateful_ for the hobbits safety that he almost started crying again. There weren't words for what had happened of late and Thorin could only nod his understanding.

As if out of no wheren, Gimli came running into the room, arms open with one of Bilbo's quilts draped behind him like a great embroidered cloak. To Thorin's utter surprise, a small blue eyed, dark curled hobbit boy came running in after him, smile beaming like the rays of a summer sun. Gimli turned, a full head and a half taller than the boy, and sounded a battle cry so fierce that Thorin was sure that the whole of Middle Earth could hear it.

“FOR EREBOR!” The teen cried, his deep voice hearty in the warm air.

“FOR THE SHIRE!” The small boy yelled shakily, eyes searching Gimli as he mimicked his battle stance.

The boys tackled Thorin right out of his chair, curly hair mussing and beards being yanked as a full on tickle fight ensued. Thorin had one rather large dwarven lad struggling with him to keep him down while the hobbit boy was fiercely tickling the king.

Thorin, in all his might, couldn't help but laugh. _This_ is what he had missed, the romping of children, the sound of people chattering away in nearby rooms, and the smell of peach tea boiling away in a kettle somewhere nearby. He whisked the boys right off their feet, holding both by an ankle as he dangled them upside down. Granted, Gimli, the ever growing teen-dwarve was just as tall as Thorin's shoulder, and holding him upside down was no easy task.

“We've been captured!” The hobbit cried frantically, his hair flying about his head as he wriggled his small, fluffy feet.

“Dwarves can't be captured!” Gimli roared, eyes like death, “they can only be slowed!”

“I'm not a dwarve!” The boy cried helplessly, fear clear in his eyes.

Gimli broke Thorin's hold with a solid twist and landed on all fours. With a quick jump and pull, he had the hobbit boy tucked beneath his arms, the tween carrying the boy from the room with prowess.

“Stick with dwarves, and you'll never be left behind!” Gimli shouted, and Frodo giggled mightily.

“For Erebor!” The hobbit lad chirped.

“For the Shire!” Gimli mimicked it in full, running from the room with another battle cry.

Thorin hummed happily, his hair fussed and his neck red from the romp. He turned back, catching Balins eye with a breathless smile playing on his lips. Thorin collapsed back into his chair, straightening his tunic. “I thought my days of play fights were over.” He sighed, but the grin was still plastered all over his face.

From the doorway came the soft padding of feet, and the hobbit boy came scurrying back in. He set a cookie on Thorins knee, an apology in his eyes, before he turned to scurry back into the other room after Gimli.

Dori came in then, the smile on his face showing that he'd seen the two boys playing together. Truly, after years of being exiled, seeing a young dwarven lad playing and care free was a remedy in itself.

“We're gathering in the sitting room.” The dwarve announced. “Bilbo's guests will soon be gone, and we shouldn't keep an angry hobbit waiting.”

Balin stood, stretched, and then continued on to the living room. He sat with the other dwarves, small chatter starting in among them. Thorin watched from the doorway, too ashamed to go into the room but too curious to flee from the smial. This he most certainly did not deserve. He shouldn't've had the privilege of going unpunished, of breathing the same air as the brave dwarves that had gone against him when he was downright _murderous_ , or of being flooded with the wave of heat radiating from the fire. He waited, and watched, and with every minute he grew more and more nauseous. When the company grew quiet, he knew that Bilbo had made his entrance.

He nearly chuckled when he saw the trained soldiers—the ax-weilding, milk curdling warriors that had once gone into battle with cries of viciousness—looking to their socked feet like dwarvlings, apprehensive curves to their brows as they gazed on anxiously. He held his tongue though, the weight of what was about to happen pressing in on his stomach. _He was going to vomit, he was going to be sick all over Bilbo's carpeting, and then the hobbit would kill him for disrupting his tidy hobbit hole, and Thorin would apologize until his soul reached Mahal, and for eternity after that—_

Bilbo carried a book in his hand, the fine yellow parchment neatly sewed into a satisfactory leather cover that was engraved with gold scripture. _In the sky a star danced, and under that I was born_. Bilbo fingered the cover with a possessive look in his green eyes.

“Whats that?” Ori asked, his eyes trailing the apparently foreign journal.

Bilbo looked to his blood brother— _Thorin was still not over this new discovery, but he would get to that subject eventually—_ and quieted him with a look. “Its my own secret, one that I've kept from you all.” He threw the book to Nori, who caught it with ease. “Start explaining.” Bilbo countered, his eyes a few shades darker, maybe, but his jaw was set regally and expectant.

Nori flipped the book open and many dwarves looked over his shoulder to take a peek. Many eyes went wide, and Bilbo waited patiently for the book to be passed around. Ori was confused but impressed, his brothers in matching expressions of worry. Kili and Fili were antsy and fidgeted as they ran through the book, and Oin, Gloin, Bifur, and Bombur were all very quiet when they saw the pages. Bofur, in all his charm, took the longest to pick the pages with his eyes, taking time that Thorin did not believe he had, testing patience that was wearily running thin. Right when Thorin was about to open his mouth and cause trouble, the book was handed to him. He hadn't known he would be allowed to see the journal, not with Bilbo's memory lacking their entire relationship. He was nothing more than a mere stranger to the hobbit, an untrusted one, at that.

Searching with his eyes, he asked permission with his gaze. When Bilbo nodded for him to continue, he did.

He soon found that the small book was actually a sketch journal. There were drawings of Mertal, the pony Bilbo had ridden on the journey. Thorin gazed down at detailed sketches of the elven kingdom, of the Mirkwood cells, of many different fires that brushed at his memories. There were swirly, perfect handwriting squeezed into margins and beneath pictures like captions and in corners, and Thorin saw many question marks aligning the pages.

Tauriel was outlined and drawn up in her armor, Legolas measured out on a fine piece of paper colored in green and silver watercolors. Thorin saw many different weapons sketched out and goblins portrayed in groups and Wargs detailed and Orcs splattered on many pages. Thorin thumbed through the volume carefully, his company sketched in portraits and delineations. Still in a daze, he saw art done up of his own hair beads, of his own face in different hues of coal, and of his kingdom in Erebor. Smaug was drawn out in careful strokes, Thraduil sketched, Beorn silhouetted. _These were incredible._

When he looked up, Thorin saw a tilt to Bilbo's brow that he didn't recognize. He seemed calm and riled up at the same time, like a hoard of bees were waiting just under his skin. Thorin found himself close to panting, the apprehension taking a hold of him, his gut still threatening to break open, his heart pumping in nervous circles.

It was a long while before Bilbo finally cleared his throat, apparently ready to begin. He stood before all of them, and his jaw tightened. “Now, I'm tired of beating around the subject. I thought that if I waited long enough one of you would have the decency of telling me the truth, but it seems that I was mistaken.” He held up a hand to silence his blood-brothers, who wanted nothing more that to explain themselves, but Bilbo was not done. “Now, I'm sure you could tell me a very good reason for why the truth has been withheld. Indeed, I'm sure its for ' _ the best _ ', as you would say, for my injury to be left unprodded, but I will have no more. Tell me,  _ now, _ why you haven't told me the truth about what happened on the adventure. Tell me why my dreams had to give me more of a clue to what had happened then my own  _ family.” _

At this, there were looks of shame spread across strong faces. Ori looked sick.

“We didn't mean any harm by it, Bilbo, you know that.” Dori reasoned. “But we weren't sure how you would handle it.”

Bilbo riled at this. “So you treat me like a child?” He fumed, “instead of speaking to me like responsible adults.” He tutted, but it didn't have the same sarcastic appeal that it had before. Now, Thorin felt the simmering rage creeping across Bilbo's eyes. There were muffled protests, but no one came out openly to say that he was wrong. “Now, listen here, and listen  _ good.  _ I've trusted you all. I had no idea who you were when I woke from my comatoseness, and I went along with every story you fed me, knowing full well that you could have been lying to me.” He turned in a large circle, facing away from them. “I know some things about the adventure; I know the friendships that were formed, I know that I would do absolutely anything for any of you, but I don't know the  _ how _ or  _ why. _ I'm telling you now that  _ I need to know. _ ” He rounded on them, no real malice in any of his movements, but in the shadow of his eyes Thorin could see a wave of hurt raking through the hobbit.  _ Betrayal. _

There was an audible sigh, but Thorin couldn't turn his eyes away from his former burglar. Fili had explained to him earlier that Bilbo had no idea about what had happened. They didn't describe the  _ why _ of the journey, or the  _ how _ , or the  _ who _ . Bilbo, in all honestly, only knew that he had traveled as far as the Misty Mountains. No one had told him anything of Mirkwood and the spiders, there was nothing of Erebor, or  _ Thorin _ for that matter.

Bilbo had been left in the dark.

Thorin returned his gaze to the hobbit. The journal was still in his hands, and he felt the cool leather warming beneath his touch. Bilbo gulped in a large swallow of air, running a shaky hand through his already frazzled hair. He sat down on a stool, his eyes pleading with the company. “Please tell me the truth. I can't stand not knowing... not knowing what _really_ happened.”

Ori was kneeling before him in an instant, his arms around his blood-brother. Nori and Dori joined him, and they embraced, unheard tears slipping from Bilbos lashes. Thorin could feel a jealousy burning in his abdomen, but he dare not act upon it in case he were to offend the three— _four_ Ri brothers. This blood bondage was sacred to dwarves. They were adjoined for life, and nothing would ever change such a link.

“We'll tell you,” Oin murmured, he and the others having murmured while the brothers sought comfort in one another, “so long as it makes you happy, Bilbo.”

 

~~

_It had been a lovely evening at Bag End,_ he was told _, and Bilbo was the host of a very embellished get together. How it went was very simple indeed, there were knocks at the door and the guests arrived, as simple as that. He may or may not have known at the first guests arrival that he was to be the host of thirteen mud-ridden dwarves, but the food was plentiful and the gatherers merry._

_Bilbo Baggins, in all his mightiness, could not get the dwarves to act as hobbits. They_ were not _hobbits, of course, but he needed them to be, if only for the sake of his family heirlooms. His aunts doilies and his mothers china were at high stake of being destroyed beyond repair, and he'd be damned before that happened!_

_No, these unruly creatures were not hobbits, but they did fill a hole in Bilbo's soul that had long been vacant; a hole that some might call_ loneliness. He was told this by Ori, who he had confided in once before he lost his memory.

_And so, yes. Bilbo had agreed to the adventure. He'd signed his name on the scroll and had set off with the company with nothing more than a single pack of clothes and necessities, a bedroll, and a small journal that he kept for his sketches. Perhaps Bilbo was not an outdoors-man. He wasn't used to having grime layered on his skin or leaves poking out from his curls, but he was used to helping whenever he could, and that was precisely what he was doing._

_By dawn on the third day, Bilbo had heard the snarl of a Wargs howl, and he felt shaken to his bones. He'd been scooped up by trolls, and threatened to be pulled limb from limb, but he was still happy to be with the company. What a crazy thought to have, to feel whole in such an open and new setting._

_Bilbo learned many things on his adventures, things that he wouldn't remember later and things that would have stayed with him for the rest of his life. He wouldn't remember the color of the pebbles that Bofur and Kili flung at his head while they rode their ponies, or how many jagged rocks had poked his soles whilst walking. Bilbo would not remember how hard it had rained on his first day, nor how long it took to dry off._

_He would have remembered, though, the song the dwarves sang when they missed Erebor too much. He would have remembered the first time Ori had opened up to him, and the first time Bofur helped him learn a few words in the secret language they spoke so that he could better understand Bifur. Bilbo would have always remembered his very-much_ rational _fear of water and how he'd clung to the side of one of those ruddy barrels, clutching with dear life as he prayed and chanted_ don't let go don't let go don't drown don't drown don't bloody drown...

_Bilbo would like to think he would still smell Thorin's musk long after their embrace had ended._

_It was the retelling of his adventure that Bilbo learned who he truly was; a kind, daring young hobbit who was far too Tookish for his own good. Bilbo was able to decipher just how much of his mothers mouth he had inherited, and how much he used it. He was a back talker, and he never was able to follow directions very well. He snuck here and there, and right when he could have been caught, he escaped, quick as a bee and as quiet as a mouse._

_It could have been, maybe, the fact that Bilbo was the best burglar in the world, and that he had been far underestimated by his traveling companions._

But he couldn't remember.

_The company, in all their glory, had been captured by goblins and released to find a presumed-dead Bilbo, alive and kicking. The dwarves, all thirteen of them, had been captured by elves and released by Bilbo. When he was able to sneak up on a pack of Wargs, they knew they had underestimated the light-footed hobbit._

_In any case, they had faced perils beyond the hobbits most frightening nightmares. He'd come out scarred, and had stayed with them all the way to the end, the mighty dragon, Smaug, being slain by the elven prince, Legolas._

_Bilbo had taken the Arkenstone, and chaos had ensued._

_Then he was told of the fall._

“It was the mithril that saved you. You had pulled it up and over your head as you fell, and that kept your injuries to a minimum.” Dori told him, tears riling where memories were playing of the young hobbit, not yet 40 and already lying in a bed with bandages from head to furry toe. “Instead of dying on impact, you simply sustained the shock of it.”

There was silence for a while, but really there was no need for anyone to continue. Bilbo knew what happened after the fall. He'd figured that much on his own. The battle commenced, the war won, the treaties signed, the kingdom restored, so on and so forth. Bilbo—who had gathered that his company had left all the riches in the world to live a simple life in the shire with their favorite hobbit—was very... _shocked._

Now, Bilbo wasn't a squeamish fellow. He dared to say that the hobbit his friends described was not who he felt like now, in the present time. He wasn't prone to fainting or being sick when something unreasonable was mentioned. But still, hearing the words, _'he threw you off the parapet'_ wasn't a nice thought to have.

Bilbo couldn't help but search for Thorin across the room, but where the dwarve had been standing in the doorway before, he was now absent. This was... a discovery, he decided. He'd been physically _thrown from a castles wall_ by a dwarve he had just welcomed into his home.

Bilbo needed to do something about this.

 

~~

Thorin didn't want to admit to anyone that he was running away, but at the look on Bilbo's face when they'd told him what the king had done... well, he ran like a child avoiding a whipping.

He slipped out the back way, his boots sledging through hard, thin snow that wafted up to hug him with a sweet earthy scent. The grass beneath the snow was dead, but the fragrance was still prominent in the burly wind. Thorin was freezing, having only the protection of a tunic and cloak from the wind. He hadn't dared go for his coat, and honestly he didn't need it. The wind was nothing against his skin compared to the blizzard flaring within his soul. It was one thing to know what he had done, and a completely other to have Bilbo know. Somehow, Thorin felt the rolling pain returning to him, the same burning sensation of apprehension was building within him as when he had first found out what he'd done.

Bilbo had been so enthralled by his own story, so invigorated but seemingly uncomprehending, as if he couldn't rightfully believe that any of these words were being used to describe him. Thorin watched the crinkle of the hobbits nose, the scrunched brows, the small pink tongue that stuck out at the corner of his lips. Bilbo was dissatisfied by what he heard, and Thorin was disgusted.

Thorin had taken the book with him, too selfish to leave it behind. Out side in the glow of the moon, Thorin opened the pages of the sketch journal again. He saw himself, his face drawn from the memory of a small hobbits dreams. He saw what he looked like to Bilbo, a stern faced dwarve, with charcoal hair and cyan eyes. Thorin thought it was like looking in his own reflection and was impressed greatly by the hobbits skill. He'd never seen Bilbo's talent and was proud now to have been able to witness it.

A proudness that soon faded as Thorin's mind reeled within him. Bilbo knew of their exploits, knew of the adventure and why it had happened. The hobbit knew of Erebor, and the only thing he'd heard from it was that it had homed a dragon and that he'd been thrown from its rampart. The hobbit had left to help reclaim the kingdom of Erebor, a land known to everyone as the Phoenix Kingdom, _a kingdom born from ashes._ Bilbo, unbeknownst to him, was world famous as the hobbit who had faced Smaug, the hobbit who had reclaimed a forgotten domain, the _hobbit who had been thrown from a rampart by the King of Erebor._

He'd left his smial to walk into heart ache, and Thorin cringed at the thought.

He fell to his knees, fresh tears breaking through the mask he'd made. He'd been careful since the graveyard, holding all emotion in, keeping his tears back to respect Bilbo's household. He had bitten several holes through his cheek and had sored his tongue, but it had meant nothing to him so long as he hadn't cried.

He had wanted to be strong when facing his company for the first time in a decade, wanted to seem stronger still when looking upon Bilbo's grave marker. But those plans had crumpled; Thorin had been a red faced blibbering mess, but he couldn't have helped it. He would have cried for days if he hadn't found the hobbit still alive.

Now, though, he let loose, clutching the journal to his chest.

Thorin was not prepared for hands to find him. He was not prepared to have his tear stained face pulled against a warm neck, or have his back stroked by two sure hands. Thorin tried backing out of the embrace but found that he couldn't move, couldn't break from the ache ripping through his stomach. Thorin, it seemed, needed to cry. He needed that release, and as the sobs ripped through his body, he felt all the tension that had built up over the years break through his muscles. Even the cry in the graveyard had been guarded and careful, but _this_. This was the most honest and natural thing he'd ever done.

Grappling with the others shirt, Thorin buried his face into the sweet smelling skin, eyes swollen and blurry. He felt his hands shaking, from both the cold and the ripples of emotion that coursed through him. Thorin knew that he should get up and leave, knew exactly who was there and that fact somehow made it so much harder for him to focus on not crying _over_ Bilbo _on_ Bilbo _._

The hobbit shushed him quietly, whispering to the dwarve like a parent assuring a small child.

Words tumbled from Thorins mouth in small flurries of spittle and sobs. _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so so sorry Bilbo. Please forgive me please please sorry so so so very sorry._ The hands on him did not cease their comforting, and Thorin, before he knew it, was being clutched to the small hobbit body in the snow. He knew he was freezing, knew Bilbo was probably even colder, and he knew that this was absurd, but the smell of honey and fresh parchment was wafting up around him, and how could anything like this be replaced by a warm smial when heat was already radiating through him?

Bilbo, in all his affects, was very patient. He patted at the wet cheeks and smoothed down hair that had been mussed. The hobbit, with the weight of a heavy dwarven king hanging from him like a babe, had rocked them back and forth, humming a tune the Thorin remembered singing in the very sitting room they'd just shared. _Far over the misty mountain cold_... He remembered, and if the song lulled him into a softer, hiccupy cry, well he didn't mind much.

Bilbo's rigid fingers found Thorin's nose, and the small bruising around his lips. “Who hurt you?” his voice asked, gentle though it may sound, Thorin could hear the slight tic to it.

Thorin wanted to laugh, but couldn't utter a single sound just then. Bilbo was concerned for him, _worried_ even. The dwarven king let slip a few more tears. Even all that had happened, all that he hobbit knew now, he was still trying to lessen the pain for others.

“It was a lesson I needed to learn, and one I am happy to have gotten.”

Bilbo huffed unhappily. “People aren't usually happy to be beaten.” He argued.

Thorin wiped the freezing tears from his eyes. “People aren't usually lost in a gold-madness, to which their sister was desperate to break.” He mused.

Bilbo nodded at this, his chin resting on Thorin's head. Thorin, if he could listen close enough, could hear the fluttering beats of Bilbo's heart, and what a _sweet sweet_ sound that was. It was like a refreshing cream applied to a bad burn, and he reveled in it.

After a while, Bilbo spoke into a wind, his chin still nestled soundly on top of Thorins head. “Its true, I don't remember you.I know what you did, and I also know that it wasn't your fault.”

Thorin's chest clenched. “Bilbo, it was my—”

Bilbo silencedhim. “Do you lecture someone for sneezing when they have a cold? Is it normal to be angry at someone who is sick with depression? You had an _illness_ , Thorin, one that took over your decision making.” Bilbo met his eyes, smoldering green pupils glared at him in the snow fall. “I don't remember you, but I know that we were close friends, and I trust you. I trust that you will not hurt me again, and I trust that you are here to make amends, both with me and the company.”

Thorin stared up at him, his body wrapped completely around Bilbo in the most vulnerable position he'd ever been in, and yet... he had never felt safer.

“Come,” Bilbo ordered. “Lets get you inside.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! One more chapter down, and the next one will hopefully be up by tomorrow!
> 
> please excuse any typos, I didn't get a chance to read straight through it.


	5. Chapter Five: Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of backstory on Bilbo's lost memories with the company, and a bit of Thorin being Thorin.

Chapter 5:

Thorin didn't have a chance in the next few days to be alone with Bilbo again, not after the duo had stepped into the smial shivering and wet with snow. Thorin hadn't noticed in the useless rays of moonlight that Bilbo's lips had turned a light blue and his cheeks were burnt red from the cold, and with an angry glare from Kili and Ori, Bilbo was snatched up from the entry way and carried off to a washroom.

Thorin sighed, and looked after them, but he hadn't raised a word against their action.

To his amusement— _ or utter horror... it really depended _ —Thorin found that every dwarrow who had been residing in the Shire this last decade had simmered from bloodied warriors to common merchants. Indeed, Oin became a healer, Bifur and Bofur toy makers, Bombur and Dori helped with harvesting and hunting, Ori working as their new official librarian and scribe, and Gloin, Nori, Fili, and Kili worked as blacksmiths. Truly all of their talents had been needed, especially the metal workers seeing as hobbits weren't very good at crafting anything besides bouquets and meals.

Thorin found himself watching an endless stream of dwarves coming in and out of Bag End through the day, but there was very seldom less than three of them there.

It was on one of the middle meals— _ honestly, this was ridiculous. Thorin couldn't keep up with what the meals were called and when they were served— _ that Bofur had come home, wood chips and shavings all but braided into his black hair. He'd given Bilbo a huge grin, sitting down at the table to eat a hearty broth that the hobbit had made. Thorin had been sitting a bit down the table, eyes low on his tea as he sat with Balin.

Bilbo returned to the kitchen to fetch the pastries and biscuits still warm by the hearth. The furry feet had barely crossed the threshold when Bofur's smile dropped and he turned an accusing eye on Thorin.

“All is going well, I hope.” He bit out, polite in the most menacing of ways. Thorin wasn't taken aback, as many of the dwarves were still untrusting of him.

“All is well, Bofur. I have not hurt him.” Thorin responding slyly, his last word muting just as Bilbo returned with the breads.

It was soon after this encounter that Thorin really started to notice the way Bilbo interacted with the dwarves; he always had food for them, always knew exactly when to expect one dwarve to walk in and what dwarve needed to head out. Bilbo had a busy routine of cooking and cleaning and taking time aside to read some from the thick volumes next to him chair with some fruity tea balanced on his side table. The dwarves went about doing dwarvish things, like working and eating and having sparring matches in the back yard, and Bilbo did his hobbit things. 

Some how, though, the routines mixed well together.

Thorin, not for the first time, wondered if he would have the time set aside to bond with Bilbo the way the others had. Even on their journey, Thorin had little time with the hobbit, and in all honesty, he could only ever remember being completely alone with the hobbit once. 

Maybe if Thorin wasn't such a coward, he would be able to ask Bilbo out for a walk, or could talk a few of the dwarves into clearing the smial for just a few hours. Thorin wanted to get to know Bilbo, this new Bilbo that didn't know battle or hunger or long nights sleeping on a forest floor. Thorin wanted to know the Bilbo that had lived his entire life in a smial built by his father.

But how could he if all these _damned dwarves_ kept popping in every two minutes?

 

~~

_ Gloin was the only father in the company, and with that in mind he knew exactly what to do when Bombur came running through the campsite to inform  _ someone _ that their new hobbit burglar was upset and crying. He was led back through the woods, away from the glen they'd stopped to feed the ponies in. Bilbo, in all his 3 feet and 6 inches was settled on the ground with his knees drawn up to his chin. _

“ _Whats the matter, laddie?” Gloin had asked, plopping down on the ground next to the hobbit._

_ Bilbo wiped furiously at his face, his cheeks red and his nose sniffling. “Nothings the matter. I only need a moment, if you please.” _

_ Gloin was not so convinced, and he told the hobbit as much. “You can trust me, you know. I'll not tell anyone your thoughts.” _

_ It took a few careful moments of more quite crying before Bilbo pulled his head up from where he'd rested it on his knee. “My mom went on adventures like this,” he explained, words a bit heavy from where his throat had closed up. “She had always promised to take me on my own adventure one day, but after the Fell Winter, she didn't want to leave the Shire.” _

_ Gloin nodded along, gracious to the little creature.  _ So that's what was wrong... the little hobbit was going over the could-haves.

_ Now, Gloin looked over at the hobbit, one who he realized was still very young. How old had Gandalf said he was? Bilbo was not yet 40, and that was very very young to be out here in the wilderness. His own Gimli was 50, a tween in his right, but if Gloin could remember correctly, then he knew that Bilbo was a handful of years after being of age. _

_ 'Too young', Gloin thought. _

_ Bilbo sat back, face pale and eyes puffy but otherwise okay. _

“ _I never would have thought I'd be so crazy as to leave the Shire, but here I am.” He hummed, a shaky breath in his laugh._

“ _Why did you come?” Gloin asked, watching the hobbits reactions._

_ Bilbo gave a curt smile. “That's not important. I came, and that may very well get us all killed.” _

“ _Nonsense.” Gloin said, though he knew that may be true. Bilbo was a liability, and everyone in the company went out of their way to avoid the disaster that was sure to follow wherever the small creature went. No one sat near the hobbit, and when it came time to sleep at night everyone seemed to have their own place besides the hobbit. This, he realized, was the first time he had realized how burdened the hobbit must feel. It was a great big world for such a little thing, especially of a species whose biggest obstacle was which waist coat to wear to a local party. Gloin hummed, turning to the silent hobbit. “It may not be much lad, but you're welcome to join my brother and I in the evenings, if you'd like.”_

_ Bilbo looked afronted, but also quite pleased at the invitation, and he was about to answer when a loud shout came from behind him. _

“ _There you are!” Kili cried, racing to the hobbit. “Come along, Bilbo, we must gather fruit for supper!”_

_ The hobbit was whisked away into the forest by their two youngest dwarves, and Gloin watched with a laugh. Yes, that may be just what the young boy needed yet. _

_ It was later that night that Bilbo came to find him, a small smile on his lips as he sat with Oin and Gloin next to the fire. He was cautious at first, his pack beneath his arms where he'd pressed it to his chest. He stammered out a question on whether or not he could sit with the, and Oin all but pulled him down in between the two, happy to see the boy. _

~~

_ Now, Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur had been quite the mystery to Bilbo, but the more time he spent around them, the more time he found that he rather liked the boisterous hatted dwarrow and his two silent kin. _

_ Bofur, of course, was the easiest in the company to talk to, and Bilbo found that he did this quite a lot. He'd taken much comfort in the encouraging words Bofur always seemed to have for him, and Bilbo felt like a whole new hobbit with each generous compliment. In fast, he often went to Bofur in the mornings when everyone was still groggy from sleep and foul-tempered. The dwarve was  _ never _ in bad tidings, and though he shared none of the same interests, Bilbo found that Bofur was a very good listener. _

_ Bifur was a  _ great _ listener, especially since he couldn't speak Westron. Bilbo wasn't even sure some of the noises the dwarrow made were words, but Khuzdul was a foreign area for him. Iglishmêk, it turns out, was easy to catch onto. _

_ Bilbo was absolutely rubbish at doing the hand signals himself, but they were easy enough to follow and read, and the hobbit was proud to announce that he could understand every gesture Bifur used by the end of the second month of learning. He was very happy at this, and was able to have full conversations with Bifur, the dwarrow using his hands to speak and Biblo communicating verbally. It was a lovely friendship to have, and he was glad to have made it. _

_ Bombur was not a man of many words. In fact, Bilbo found most of the time that Bombur only really spoke when angry or when he grumbled in his sleep. Bilbo had thought the man a mute until he'd began hanging out with the trio, and found that Bombur was quite the talkative fellow once one got to know him. When he grew fond of the little hobbit, Bombur began teaching Bilbo how to find healing herbs and edible tree sap from their surroundings, and Bilbo found himself often tucked around the small family when it was time to rest for meals. _

Bilbo couldn't have asked for any greater companions, and he'd found that Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur gave off a radiating atmosphere of  _ home. _

 

~~

 

 

~~

_ Bilbo sat with his legs crossed, Dori, Nori, and Ori all grouped around him in a protective circle. The three brothers had grown quite close to the hobbit, always protecting him when battles ensued and walking with him when ponies weren't an option. Yes, the Ri brothers had a soft spot for their burglar, as most of the dwarves did, but perhaps it was a matter of the way the hobbit acted that made them so over protective of him. _

_ No one knew that Ori had had a twin brother, Yori, or that he had died at infancy. The older Ri brothers were very protective of Ori, knowing full well the pain in losing a sibling. _

_ Dori and Nori had been very interested in the little hobbit, especially upon learning that he had lent their brother a few books. Ori was always pouring over the pages of one, whether when eating or riding or walking. He was usually the shy type, but he never hesitated to ask Bilbo for help with something he had read that he needed help with. _

_ None of the company had ever seen Ori so open with an outsider. He wasn't exactly timid, but he didn't like sharing words with others, and his ability to be comfortable with Bilbo was a godsend. Ori finally had someone to talk literature with, and share stitch patterns, and forage for herbs and roots with. _

_ Of course they accepted him. _

_ It was late into one of their very long days that Ori's eyebrows shot up near his hairline and his eyes landed on the sleeping hobbit, folding the book that he'd been reading onto his lap. He stayed like that for several minutes, watching the rise and fall of Bilbo's chest. Dori finally had to ease Ori out of his own mind, asking him what had bothered him. _

_ Ori sat stiffly, his eyes unblinking as he raked over Bilbo's form. “Does he seem very thin to you?” _

_ Dori was taken aback. He looked over at the hobbit, seeing the slack shirt that seemed to hang from his collar and the short trousers that dangled around his calves more than they had when they'd left Bag End. “I suppose he is a bit thinner, but aren't we all, lad?” Ori nodded at this, his eyes returning to his book, but Dori didn't miss his brothers eyes trailing over to the hobbit every few minutes. He did not turn the page, but seemed to be reading the same passage over and over again. _

_ Dori sighed, wondering what kind of thoughts were running through his brothers head. _

_ ~_~_~ _

_ The next day, Nori thought his younger brother was acting quite peculiar, walking very close to Bilbo from the time they woke to the time they made camp that night. At breakfast, Ori didn't eat much of his meal, and instead wrapped it carefully to store it in his pack. That was worry enough for the older Ri's, but Ori only waved them off, claiming he was fine. _

_ A few hours later, Ori was unwrapping a roll and a sausage, offering it to Bilbo. The hobbit took it gratefully, chewing the bread thoughtfully and offering half to Ori, who despite being quite flustered, agreed to eat it anyways. They chatted up a storm, crumbs stuck to their faces. _

_ Now, Nori was the only one to see this exchange, him being the last one in the walking line with the hobbit and his brother only a few paces in front of him. If he thought it was weird behavior, then the thought didn't present itself just then, and Nori passed it off as his brother simply being generous. _

_ Two hours later, at eleven o clock, Ori pulled a nice piece of ham from his pack and another roll, bringing it to Bilbo. The hobbit declined, but Ori was persistent, and Bilbo took it begrudgingly, again, offering half to Ori. They ate together in silence, and Nori huffed to himself. _

_ Lunch, the camp had together, and Ori grabbed a bit extra than he usually did, but his brothers only smiled, liking that their brothers appetite was growing. They had plenty of supplies after all, the woods they walked through being rich with game and fruit to collect. _

_ Neither brother saw Ori hide away the extra pieces in his pack. _

_ It was sometime into the evening that Ori brought a flask to Bilbo, offering up the liquid to Bilbo. _

“ _I don't drink, Ori.” Bilbo said abashedly, but Ori explained that it was not alcohol, but a natural tea that he'd made with some mint and roots. Bilbo smiled at that, and he drank from the flask, thanking Ori very much, but not before offering the dwarve a nice swig from it._

_ Dori noticed Ori giving Bilbo a roll and a plum, stuttering some excuse for the hobbit to eat it. They shared the fruit. Now, Nori and Dori were sharing regular looks of inquisition, both wanting to know what was going on. _

_ Supper, they had with the company, all of them having settled down for the evening. Ori sat in between Bilbo and Nori, their shoulders touching as Ori read the leather-spined book. _

“ _Ah...” Ori started, and he closed the book firmly in his hands. It was then that Nori got a good glance at the front of it, A How-To to Hobbit Habits. “Bilbo?” Ori asked skeptically._

_ The hobbit looked up, his wide green eyes meeting Ori's. “Yes?” He asked. _

_ Ori cleared his throat, obviously not ready for whatever it was he was about to say. The boy twiddled his thumbs, the book resting in his lap as he worried at his lips. “Are you... are you feeling any better? Today, I mean. Compared to... the last few days.” _

_ That struck them all as odd, and Bilbo's brows dipped in confusion. Had the hobbit been sick? Dori leaned over from his place beside Nori, his eyes scanning his brothers face. “I certainly feel chipper today, but I believe that's just from the fine weather we're having.” Bilbo remarked. “Why do you ask, Ori?” _

_ Said dwarves face went stark red, and Nori was afraid that his brother might faint. Ori only cleared his throat, holding up the book. “I've been reading about Hobbit lifestyles.” He explained. “I've gotten quite far, but I only just reached the part about your, ah, eating habits.” _

“ _Oh,” Bilbo breathed. “Any you're... upset?” he asked nervously._

_ Ori nodded a bit. By then, Nori and Dori had abandoned their meals and were butting into the conversation. Bilbo, after all, was very close to them, and they wanted nothing more than to help with anything that was ailing him. _

_ There was a strange quiet around them, and the subjects of their stares seemed oblivious to their audience. “Its not so much that I'm angry, just... concerned. You've not been staying healthy.” Ori muttered, and that seemed to perk the dwarves ears quite a bit. _

“ _What do you mean, lad?” Dori inquired. “He's as healthy as any of us.”_

_ Ori nodded. “Yes, yes, but we've thrown off his eating habit quite a bit.” _

_ Nori gave a hearty laugh then. “Well, aye, all of our eating habits have been changed. But still, in the worst of it, we may only have to skip one meal, boy. We make sure the company eats at least twice every day.” There was a sound of agreement strewn from the other brother, but Ori only shook his head. _

“ _That's just it, though.” Ori argued. “Hobbits don't eat three meals a day! They eat six!”_

“ _That's ridiculous!” Nori barked. “They're such little things!”_

_ There was silence then, as grave looks were passed between each of the brothers. Nori had a stormy look on his face, and Dori seemed thoughtful. Each one took a moment to really look at their burglar, seeing that, yes, he was very much skinnier than the plump thing he had been the night they'd met him. He seemed almost too skinny, and there was a wave of unease that passed around the fire. Neither of them, they realized, knew anything about Hobbits, other then that they were very peculiar, polite little things. _

“ _Is that true, Bilbo?” Dori asked tentatively._

_ Bilbo sat for a moment, toying with the mending he'd had in his hand. “Well, yes.” He finally said, his voice little more than a murmur. “Hobbit's have quite large appetites, but we don't eat in such large quantities as dwarves do. We spread them out, throughout the day. Breakfast, second-breakfast, luncheon, evening tea, dinner, and supper.” He counted off on his thin fingers with a smile that quickly turned to a sheepish frown. “But I'm fine, I promise! You all have kept me very well off these last few weeks.” _

_ There was a noise of disagreement, and a low comment about his twig-arms, but no one raised the question again. _

That was just a few weeks before the fall, and also when Dori had begun carving a ceremonial blooding knife. 

 

_ ~~ _

_ Bilbo had been a finely groomed hobbit before the journey. Indeed, each day he wore a pressed shirt and a lovely waist coat. He combed his feet and washed his hair and made sure to always have a bit of fragrant oil on his cuff when going to parties. _

_ Now, however, he did not feel very groomed at all. His hair had grown well past its usual length at his jaw line and had traipsed his shoulders, the rascal. _

_ It was Fili who noticed first when Bilbo had to keep sweeping his long bangs back or to the side. The hobbit had been cursing under his breath for a long while, the wind throwing hair before his eyes every few seconds. Kili had soon caught on, and together they banded together with a small pocket knife and a piece of fine oak they'd nicked from the elves. _

_ It was a few days later that they approached Bilbo before a fire, everyone else having already gone to sleep.“Bilbo?” Fili asked tentatively, seeing the hobbits cheeks flushed with a biting anger. The hobbit huffed in response, and the boys sat before him. The hobbit, quite coincidentally, was combing through his curls, trying his hardest to detangle them. “We can help with that, if you'd like?” The prince offered. _

_ Bilbo dropped his hands from his head, a tuff of hair sticking up where his fingers had abandoned it. “Its useless. I may as well cut it, for all the trouble its causing.” _

_ Both boys sprang forward in dismay, chorusing different versions of: “No! You can't do that, its indecent! You mustn't cut your hair!” _

_ Bilbo was taken aback, but said no more of cutting it. “What do you suggest I do then?” _

_ Fili settled back again, regaining composure. But, Mahal, cutting his hair? With the finery of those curls, Fili would sooner throw his favorite sword from a cliff. _

“ _Actually, we've made something we think will help you.” Kili piped, his teeth showing through a very wide, very boisterous grin._

_ Bilbo's eyes widened, and when both Fili and Kili held out a palm, each with a carved hair bead in it, he gasped. The smile carving his lips was a relief to both boys, and he leaned forward eagerly. _

“ _Really? Those are for me?” The hobbit piped, and the boys nodded fervently. “Thank you so very much!” The hobbit chirped, the very picture of happiness. “I haven't a clue how to braid my own hair though... would you mind helping me?”_

_ The boys exchanged a look. Braiding hair was meant only for close relatives and courting, but both boys made their minds up at exactly the same instance. Bilbo was already like a brother to them, and if this made things just a bit more official, well fah. It was there business, any ways. They set about braiding Bilbo's hair back away from his face and into one very strong braid that ended between his shoulders. _

This was before Erebor, and both boys had been very upset when Bilbo gave each back their beads. He'd called it, 'safe-keeping' for when he went into the throne room to face the dragon... _ just in case. _

 

~~

Thorin watched the dinner table buzz, quite in the seat he took up between Fili and Balin. There was an exchange between Nori and Kili, both boisterously explaining why ' _ my brother Bilbo' _ was the greatest to ever grace that of Hobbiton. This, in turn, led to Bofur shouting about why  _ 'my brother Bilbo _ ' was the greatest to ever grace that of the Shire, followed by Ori's rant of why his brother Bilbo was the greatest in the whole of _ Middle Earth _ !

There were mentions of his cooking, and his sweet disposition, and everything that the hobbit enjoyed. Thorin, in all his honesty, could not disagree with a single thing that any of them stated, knowing surely that Bilbo, in fact,  _ was _ _ and is _ the greatest creature in the history of the entire world. The hobbit had proven himself time and time again, and always seemed to surprise the king.

He smirked at this, hiding his smile with another hearty mouthful of stew and bread, blinking away thoughts he'd better leave alone for a while.

Yes, his company was now family with their resident burglar, but the smile ringing on Bilbo's face was enough to settle any argument he may have made against that. What fault was there in something that made the hobbit happy?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have such large anticipation for this piece, but I fear I may not give my ideas the justice they need to come across clear and readable.
> 
> My computers hard drive is being poopy and I don't know how to fix it.
> 
> I spent another valentines day alone. Boo. 
> 
> But OTP feely feels have come out in the next few chapters, and all I could think was, "they're going to freak."
> 
> So yeah! Comment? Suggestions? I'm open to practically anything right now.


	6. Chapter 6: After the Wall.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin wants to know what happened after the rampart; what happened to Bilbo, and how he recovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its been a very long time since I updated, but thank you for staying patient! I'm almost done with the school year and then I will be able to write much more often!  
> Thank you!  
> Leave some feedback???? <3<3

Chapter 6:

It was the first day of his second week there when Bilbo announced that he would be venturing to the market to buy a few things he would need for dinner that night. Many dwarves had to leave for their respective jobs soon, but the handful that weren't eagerly volunteered to go with the hobbit. Bilbo cut them down early, though, a stern look to his brow. “Now, you’ve just gotten off work, the lot of you, and I won’t be having any of you falling asleep at dinner!” He chastised haughtily.

To this, Fili pouted. “It only happened once!”

Thorin, in a wave of confidence he did not have a moment before, stepped forward. “I have no prior plans if you'd like me to escort you, Master Baggins.” He offered, and as soon as the words left his mouth he was a big ball of nerves. Thorin seemed at ease, as if the decision wouldn't matter to him either way, but _oh, it did._ He wanted more time with their resident burglar, his past week he'd devoted to catching up with his nephews and company, or at least those who would speak with him.

How it goes, Fili, Dori, Bombur, Gloin, and Oin were the only ones not completely pissed at him. His other nephew was still cross with him and couldn't be in the same room as him without his temper boiling over. Nori and Ori always had protective eyes lingering over Bilbo, and Bofur and Bifur always seemed to be cleaning their knives when Thorin wanted to speak to Bilbo alone.

 So yes... Bilbo's answer was a bit important, if only for the sake of the king to have an unstressed conversation with the hobbit.

Relieving Thorin's twisting nerves, Bilbo smiled happily and nodded, making his way for the door. Thorin hurried after, yanking on his boots like a dwarven lad ready to go out on his first trek. The king followed the hobbit down the dirt path, his eyes wondering the front walk of the Shire.

It was a decent distance to the market, and Thorin felt the brisk wind on his skin as a nice reminder of just where he was. The Shire was teaming energy that day, and Thorin was very glad to finally have an excuse as to walk so close to Bilbo. After all, the pathways _were_ _very very_ narrow, made for two hobbits and not the thick bodies of dwarves. If Thorin's hand accidentally brushed Bilbo's coat, well that was just because of the closeness they shared. If his eyes nestled onto the hobbits pinking face, then maybe he had seen a fleck of dirt or something similar. Thorin, king under the mountain, monarch of the Phoenix Kingdom, was most definitely not breathing shakily at the mere sight of Bilbo, his lips plump and pink from the cool air, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight, his curls bouncing as he walked....

Absolutely not. _Nope._

Thorin acted as a mule, carrying Bilbo's items for him as he traded coin for fresh milk and grains. Bilbo bought flour, spices, and meats, all of which fit into a single paper bag that Thorin could carry easily enough. They were returning shortly thereafter, bag in tow, when Bilbo was hit squarely in the shoulder with a missile of compressed snow.

Bilbo huffed, turning to find the culprits. Gimli, the rascal, clad up in all his winter clothing was running about with three small hobbits behind him. These hobbits Thorin did not know, but Bilbo brightened at the sight of them. “Samwise, Merry, Pippin, you lot better stay out of trouble!” He called, but to Thorins delight, the elder Baggins' was in the process of making his own snow ball, his fingers smashing the snow together into a small ball.

“SNOW BALL FIGHT!” One yelled, eyes alight as he scooped the powdery mess from the ground.

Bilbo threw his first missile, the ball landing squarely against a shrub to break apart and sprinkle over the small hobbits. They each squealed, running to make ammo behind the broad shoulders of their dwarven friend. Gimli fired, strings of battle cries escaping him as he rallied his troops.

When a flurry of snow balls fell over Bilbo, he feigned pain, doubling over with a hefty _oomph_ for effect _._ He grabbed Thorin's sleeves, pushing him to the ground into a small dip of a hill, his cheeks aflame and smile beaming.

“Bilbo,” Thorin reasoned, “the groceries.”

The hobbit in turn rolled his eyes at the dwarrow. “Forget the groceries, Thorin, it’s a snowball fight!” His laughter was rich and full, and Thorin felt a heaviness in his chest disappear. This, he thought, was the best feeling in the world. There was no pain here, no guilt. He was laughing along with his hobbit and watching children play, both of which he thought he would never again recognize. With the dragon-sickness gone, he had nothing to do but witness life.

And with that, he asked himself, _when did Bilbo become_ his _hobbit?_

Bilbo threw another missile before sliding ungracefully to the ground. He lay beside the dwarrow, eyes alive and lips a tart red from cold and laughter.

But as he fell to the ground, Thorin had a flash of something else, somewhere else, where _the hobbit was sweating in the summer heat. Perspiration had clung to his skin, eyes panicked and tearing up as he was held over the ledge of a rampart… Bilbo whimpered, coughing against the strong hand that was clasped around his neck like a rope. He was choking, his windpipe crushed beneath one strong hand. His eyes were watering, and Thorin could smell the bile that was bubbling in the hobbits throat. It was just the two of them among the sea of warriors, and Thorin heard and saw nothing else._

_He looked into the hobbits eyes before dropping him._

A snow ball landed in Thorin’s face and he gasped. Bilbo traipsed the hill, flinging bundles of snow this way and that as the small army of fauntlings sprang from behind another make shift fort. Thorin peaked from his spot, mind scarred from the flashback as he tried to regain his stability. When he saw the three hobbits successfully tackling Bilbo to the ground, he felt relieved. _Bilbo is alive, he is here and breathing and_ fine. Gimli sat on the ground, seemingly okay with the children’s attention being drawn from him.

Thorin reveled in the loud boisterous laughing that was escaping Bilbo, and he tried to smile, but all he could see was Bilbo falling, falling, landing, though he knew that he hadn’t even stayed for that. It played over in his mind, over and over and over, until finally there was nothing left but his own bile rising in his throat as he threatened to vomit.

Thorin had seen war, had killed and had _almost_ killed, and he had held more of his dead kin that he would ever wish upon anyone. He was suddenly very cold, despite having been in the snow all day. He focused on breathing, and on the childrens laughing, and he sat in the snow until the world stopped spinning.

He galnced up at the beaming happiness that was peaked on Bilbo’s face, and when their eyes met, he nearly choked again. Bilbo’s smile fell, and as the young hobbits ran off to cause more trouble elsewhere, he came and helped Thorin to his feet. He took Thorin’s arm, the one that didn’t hold the groceries, and walked with his down the path.

A worried expression over took the laugh-lines, and Bilbo rubbed at the dwarves sleeve. “Yes, I think that will be quite enough for today.” He decided.

 

~~

Later, Bilbo would wonder what had caused Thorin to look so haunted. He would wonder why a war raged within him, and why the dwarf looked ready to jump from the nearest cliff. He would not ask right then, but he would worry about it and dream of it and make his best apple cobbler as he debated on what to do.

But what could he do? He was just a hobbit, and he had no idea how to handle a king.

 

~~

Their vegetables were a bit bent upon returning back to Bag End, but Thorin couldn’t find it in him to care at the sight of his hobbit in such high spirits.

Bilbo started dinner, his eyes shining as he hummed a sweet tune and needed more dough. Thorin drank a bitter cider in the den, close enough to hear the low melody but far enough that none of the other dwarves became uncomfortable.

Thorin, in the time he had to meander near Bilbo, became an expert at inching his way along a wall by gazing at the portraits done up in oil paints and chalks, if only to get a little closer and hear Bilbo humming or talking.

He found a great many Baggins’ that he did not know existed, of every shape and size. The king gazed upon precious drawings of a young Bilbo and his parents, of little cousins running about like a swarm of hobbit-sized bees, and of the rolling hills outside. In fact, there was even a painting of Belladonna Baggins and Elrond nestled up on a shelf.

Thorin glanced behind him at Bilbo, who leaned against the counter and chatted with Tauriel. Dinner seemed to be almost ready, and dwarves were already gathering at the table. Thorin excused himself, his mind still thick with thoughts he didn’t quite understand.

He walked for only two hours, his thoughts muddled but not dark. He had found much more here than he had originally thought. His family, his burglar, and now it seemed, Thorin was destined to find the years and years of nothingness that sprung up out of nowhere, reminding him of the years he’d spent isolated in his own greed. Honestly, one moment, he was fine and doing okay being here in the Shire, and the next he felt like vomiting his guts out.

What in Mahal was he to do?

He went to Kili, though he knew his nephew was still cross with him. Out of all the dwarves he’d seen interacting with Bilbo of late, the two who seemed closest to him— _besides his blood brothers… Thorin wanted answers, but he wasn’t suicidal_ —was Kili and Bofur.

“Kili—” He started, but it was hard to breathe just then. Kili sat outside with the elven maid, and Thorin’s brow frowned. How was he ever to fix this mess he’d made if every time he went to speak to one of his company, he froze? Thorin cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you could help me, Kili… and maybe you as well, Tauriel.”

There was a shared look shared between the two, but neither had told him to sod off. “What is it, uncle?” Kili asked.

Thorin sighed and sat infront of them on the porch step. “I’d like to know what happened after the rampart.”

 

_It had been a very hard trek for each dwarrow, their own respective aches and pains giving way after they had fled Erebor—again—and had stowed off through the war with only the guide of one elven lady and a single wagon to be pulled along by hand._

_Kili, in his own right, was not ashamed of the tears streaming down his face as he pushed the cart away from his mother’s birth place. He was worn out, hungry, and covered in layers and layers of dirt, blood, and grime. He was not ashamed that he cried for Bilbo, who had only treated him well. He cried for the hobbits spilled blood, and the fact that Kili hadn’t been able to protect his friend._

_The dwarves knew what they were doing, knew that Erebor was supposed to be their home, and Thorin their king, but what else could they do? Bilbo was one of them, kin to them, and they were not about to stand by their friends would-be murderer._

_When they'd taken Bilbo's broken body to the tent, Kili was sure that he would empty his stomach all over the stone floors, unable to really feel anything but the heavy pulsing of his heart. The elven prince, Legolas, stood only inches from him and Kili did not feel the fire in him to remark. No, there were more pressing matters, like the approaching war, the dragon, and the fact that they were all banished from the only shelter they had ever been promised. Kili shook his head. No, none of that mattered either. Bilbo's heart had started again, and he was choking out raspful breathes._

_He was alive._

_Before they were even allowed to leave the compound, they put aside a long hour to convince the elves that they had to leave, had to get the hobbit out of the danger of the battle field and their cousins approaching army, because surely if Thorin had control of so many soldiers then killing the hobbit off would be his first command._

_“Let Thorin think him dead! He needs to return to his Shire where he can rest and heal!” Kili pleaded, his eyes bright._

_“A battle field is no place for a hobbit.” Gandalf added._

_Thranduil gave in eventually, his mouth stern as they left. He sent the lady elf after them, to escort them back as far as Mirkwood, and she helped gather supplies while the dwarves were still too travel worn to be of much help._

_They had snagged the wagon, and the dwarves set upon the tedious task of walking all the way back across Middle-Earth, their feet sore and their stomachs empty. Tauriel had shot game for them, stewing it and letting them eat. Bilbo was tucked in many blankets they'd found in Laketown, his wounds bound by bandages that needed to be changed, but they were still too close, so close that they were all sure that the battles melody was drifting to them on the wind._

_As I've said before, it was a long hard trek for each dwarrow, and by the end of it they were all newly sore and in need of rest. None had brought spare clothes, nor coin, nor food. What they ate, they foraged for or shot with Tauriels bow. Where they slept was on meadow grounds and river sides. What they wore was what they wore, and they washed in streams once every few days to keep the bugs away._

_They all barely slept though, mostly because it was hard to shut their eyes when their hobbit could not open his. Ori spent much of his time beside the hobbit, telling his stories in the dead of night, commenting on the weather as they trekked, or simply describing things in great detail as they passed them. Bilbo was often cleaned and dabbed at with cool rags, seeing as hesweated through three fevers on their way back and began to cough up froth two weeks before Tauriel left them._

_Kili found himself anxiously watching Tauriel, who could dart here and there in the trees like a ghost. More than once, she had snuck up on the dwarves, and in turn they responded by guarding the wagon and drawing weapons. She tried to make more noise after the first time, but it was just not in her nature to be noisy, and it was not in theirs to trust someone with their hobbit._

_Oin knew that Bilbo had to be checked often and vigorously. He knew not to let the hobbit set for too long in the same position, less he get bed sores. None of them knew anything about comatoseness, and the only thing they could do was redress wounds and dribble broth onto the hobbits tongue._

_When they reached the Shire, it was in midafternoon. The last they'd been there, the dwarves had the cover of night to all hoard into Bag End and morning to sneak away in. Now, they were met by many pairs of wide, round eyes. Many just stood and stared, but one brave child did come forward, a hesitant look on his face as he climbed the wagon to peer inside._

_“Mr. Bilbo?”_

_At the halflings words, his parents came forward. The male gasped, large eyes getting larger as he looked down at the pale hobbit. “Mister Bilbo, sir!” The hobbit cried, eyes turning to look at the dwarves. “Whatever has happened?”_

_“He's injured and needs a bed, a bath, and most of all medicines. Have you any?” Fili asked._

_The man sputtered, turning on his heel to run back into his home. “Bell! Mister Bilbo is back and injured! Grab the ale, the needles and thread, and have Sam run to start a fire in Bag End!” They could hear him yelling. The dwarves saw a blonde haired lad run from the open door, hurrying down the path and up into the rolling hills. The dwarves hurried after, anxious to have their hobbit healed._

_~~_

_If having Tauriel anywhere near Bilbo made them jittery, having strangers near him was even worse. The dwarves knew nothing of these hobbits or what their intentions were with Bilbo. Indeed, their hobbit had mentioned some family that would rather see him stolen then deal with his oddities any longer, and each new face that passed through the door could have been the rotten bugger that had made their hobbit feel unwanted._

_It was even worse when Bell locked them all out of the bathroom, giving Bilbo a thorough cleaning and scrubbing away a years’ worth of blood and dirt. When Kili had pushed his way through and had opened the door to Bell sewing up one of Bilbo’s cuts with the needle, he nearly lost it all. He would have snatched the burglar away, taken him away to the hills where they could all dig out a new smial for Bilbo to live in…_

_But, no. These were Bilbo’s friends, and if Hobbit’s treated their wounds with salves and thread, then so be it._

_It was then that they all learned that certain medicines they used regularly on the trip could have just as easily killed Bilbo. Indeed, hobbits were immune to some dwarf poisons, but some natural muscle relaxers and head ache medicine may have put Bilbo in a comatoseness to begin with._

_~~_

_It had taken a good three days for each of the dwarves to stop looking as if they were bleeding to death. Indeed, each of them took shifts in watching over Bilbo, and when they weren’t with their hobbit, they were busy making his smial livable._

_A fine layer of dust had gathered in the year they’d been gone, and though they weren’t the homely type, each dwarf gave it their all to clean as Bilbo would. It was Hamfast Gamgee who helped them the most, the same hobbit who had kept Bilbo’s lawn and garden up while he’d been away, the same hobbit who could probably dust the entirety of the house with his eyes closed, and the very same hobbit who had helped the dwarves settle into their new lives at Bag End._

_They’d been welcomed, of course, because any friends of Bilbo were friends to the Shire. They had many visitors, from the crying eyes of the family who cared and the prying fingers of the family that didn’t._ Kili laughed dryly at the memory of _Lobelia being hauled from the ground by a very pissed Dori when he caught her sliding a fork up her sleeve. The nerve of her! Stealing from poor Bilbo when he was… was… not well._

_It wasn’t until a few months into their stay that Elrond had come, though it had been a long time since any of the dwarves had seen him and at first they thought him an enemy. In fact, anything that came near the smial was glared at and silently threatened for a very long while. The elf had brought all his books and his best doctor to help the dwarves understand what comatoseness was and how they could help it along._

_They learned how to treat the body when it laid for so long, and how to coax the mind, and it took every ounce of their energy not to chop something with their axes when they learned that there was no real cure; only patience and understanding._

_None of them understood the breathing tube, or how the energized crystals worked the small wooden box that pumped air into Bilbo, but if it stopped Bilbo from going into the small fits he had where he stopped breathing, then so be it. They fed him through a different tube that went down his throat, and Oin handled his urine tube that no one often spoke of. He was moved regularly, and they did the physical therapy that was recommended for his small body a total of 10 hours a day. In time, Elrond and his doctor left, and the dwarves were left alone._

_It had been a few weeks after that when Bilbo opened his eyes. Bofur had been terrified, for he had dropped a teacup and the noise had caused Bilbo’s body to react. Ori, who had also been there, sprang forward and cried on Bilbo for hours, all hope that had been dwindling by the day springing forth and claiming its place on the throne of everyone’s mind. Frantically, they wrote to the elven doctor, and they learned that Bilbo could hear them and could respond to basic commands. He would open his eyes if startled or in pain, and whenever that happened they were instructed to shut his eyes for him again._

_Bilbo still did not wake._

_The dwarves did okay like this for a while, feeding and stretching and cleaning the hobbit in turns. Ori was quite a mess most of the time, crying or knitting or crying_ and _knitting, and he only seemed somewhat okay when he was reading one of the books from Bilbo’s vast library aloud to the hobbit._

_Two years. Two years they thought their hobbit was going to die. Two years that consisted of melancholy thoughts and bad dreams and hopeless encouragement for a broken creature of only three and a half feet to wake back up. Surely, all their want was for nothing, and each would cry for the hobbit that had done so much good for them. He was not getting stronger, he was not reacting to their voices as often…_

_Then came the night, only an hour after midnight, when Bifur came running through the house screaming in Khuzdul so quickly that no one could understand him at first, but at the desperate words, “_ HE’S AWAKE! _” they all suddenly realized what was happening._

_It was only Ori and Oin that were allowed in at first, and Kili remembered wanting to push his way through the pack to see a glimpse of his hobbit. He did, of course, because he had no self-control, mainly because the sensation of the blood that had soaked his shirt and the feeling of the hobbits limp body in his arms was enough to excuse his pardon as he elbowed dwarves out of his way._

_Bilbo was frightened. You could see it in his eyes and the way he clutched his sheets. It was feeble, but the whites of his knuckles showed how afraid he was. He shook, and he had to swallow several times before he could talk._

_“Who are you?” He asked, and Ori sat on the bed next to him, taking the hobbits hand as he had done a hundred thousand times before._

_“We’re your friends.” The dwarf said sweetly._

_Bilbo blinked, swallowed, blinked again. “I don’t know you; never met you a day in my life—” And at that point, Hamfast Gamgee came waddling in, his nightshirt wrinkled and tears streaming down his face._

_“Mr. Bilbo, Mr. Bilbo, sir!” He’d cried. “It’s so good to see you awake!”_

_“Hamfast!” Bilbo had cried, and Kili watched as the hobbit reached a scarred hand out to the other hobbit. “What do you mean, ‘see me awake’? I just saw you before dinner!”_

_And at that, looks were exchanged and whispers whispered and throats cleared, and it didn’t matter what your rank was or who you were or what you thought you were doing in that very moment because the only thing that mattered was Bilbo was awake and he was breathing and talking, and who cared if he couldn’t remember?_

_Each dwarf, right then, either went to sit in the living room to give the lad space or went for a walk around the Shire, because both were quite comforting and cozy, and both let the dwarves clear their minsd as Hamfast and Ori set about the task of explaining to the hobbit (not) exactly what happened. (No, they had decided long ago that Bilbo would not find out just what had happened on the yearlong adventure he’d been on, nor did any of them plan on telling him.)_

_In the next few days—_

Kili stopped, a great breath escaping him as he bowed his head. His fists curled into his hair and his jaw locked up, and for a moment, Thorin had forgotten exactly who he was talking to and how much it must hurt for his nephew to be retelling this story.

“What is it?” Tauriel whispered, as though her voice was enough to set the whole world on its side.

Kili only shook his head and cleared his throat, raising his head to gaze into the night sky. “It had been so hard… Those first couple of days.” He started, throat tight. _Bilbo, the once plump and healthy hobbit had lost a lot of weight and muscle in the course of his comatoseness, as well as the weight lost on the journey. It was a miracle that they could get him to stand on his own, and before long, they found that Bilbo had to relearn many things, like walking for long periods of time, using basic utensils, and brushing his teeth._

_Indeed, Bilbo wasn’t as quick to trust the dwarves as he had the first time, but they were gentle and persistent, and anything Bilbo needed was provided for him on the spot by any dwarf that happened to hear the request. Yes, Bilbo jumped a few times at the dwarves present at first, but he did not make them leave and they did not go, and he took pity when he woke from a nap in his armchair to find a few anxious dwarrows watching him nervously. Kili himself had nearly jumped from his skin when he walked in to see the hobbit fast asleep on the couch, afraid that maybe he’d done something wrong, afraid that perhaps someone had harmed his friend, afraid, so very very afraid that their hobbit had fallen ill again._

_But no, Bilbo had stretched and yawned and had gotten up to prepare their dinner, though Kili stayed rooted to the doorway until he found his footing, and proceeded outside to be sick on the grass._

_It took them a whole year of muscle therapy and exercise and 6 whole meals a day to get Bilbo back to the pre-journey weight that he’d been. Though, honestly, none of the dwarrows had known the pre-journey Bilbo, nor had they tried to know him, for all of them had thought him a weak, simple-minded creature that would surely get them all killed._

_When in reality it had been the other way around._

Kili stood then, walking from the porch with a purpose.

“Kili—” Thorin had started, but his nephew turned on him, eyes flaring with tears.

And there it was, the same boy that so long ago had been prone to grabbing ahold of Thorin’s furs to fide them across the floor; The same boy that would often come to him in the early morning because he wanted a story. This young dwarrow, a few years above age, was the same who had followed him on a dangerous journey, who had given up one home for his uncle, and another for a hobbit.

“Uncle, _please._ ” He begged. “You must understand, for me to talk of this, especially with you it—it—I—” he growled, jerking away and wiping furiously at his face. “We grieved for him every day as if he had died. The pain _never. went. away._ It numbed us, it fueled us, but it was always there, always picking at us.” Fili huffed in a great breath, and in the exhale, it was as if his entire frame buckled.

When he fell to the ground, Thorin was in front of him in an instant, his nephew in his arms for the first time in years, and _oh_ , what a feeling _that_ was.

He felt as if a piece of his heart had finally returned to him, and Thorin sighed as Kili cried onto his shoulder. The snow stung against his legs, and Thorin was sure that in the next few minutes his pants would be soaked through with melted ice, but it was of no matter.

“We mourned the losses.” Kili rasped. “Bilbo, Erebor, you... We mourned for death, and then celebrated our new life here, but none of us were ready for those two years, especially when Bilbo woke and didn’t know us.”

Thorin nodded, though his throat was so tight that he couldn’t respond. He gripped his nephew closer, sure that tears streamed down his own face, and he was not prepared to let go.

He would never let them go again.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7: A Mix of Events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff.

It was very late that same evening that Bilbo had stuttered awake from where he’d fallen asleep in his armchair. His hair was ruffled and his throat dry, but he seemed more aware of his surroundings then he had before falling asleep. He stretched, the journal in his lap finally dried from where he’d been writing earlier. There was a place inside him that coiled and erupted at the thought of being thrown from an overgrown balcony, but there was also the forefront thought of, “I lived through that. I’m fine.”

True to their words, the dwarves slowly began telling him more and more details about his life during the black in his mind. To be honest, there were more perils involved than he would have ever cared for, but Bilbo was proud of the actions he was told of, and was happy to have them stored neatly in his journal.

He did not have these memories himself, no, but hearing them was a whole nother experience that he would never be able to replace.

Imagine reading a fairy tale where you're the main character. It was magical and enticing, and Bilbo found every inch of him crawling with chills as he listened to a new version of himself that he could never have created on his own.

He slid into his kitchen, the lights low from the dying fire and still crisp with the smell of honey ham and sweet potatoes. The light outside drafted through the crisp, chilly air and coated the room in a rim of blue. Bilbo sat at his table after making himself a pot of tea, and in the dim lighting, all by himself for the first time in what felt like forever, Bilbo let his mind wonder.

The hobbit sighed, running a small thumb over the rim of his cup. Yes, he loved his dwarves, and yes, he wouldn’t trade the life he had for anything, but there was only so much time one could spend with their family before they needed some space. Honestly, Bilbo couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone; he couldn’t quite bring up the last time he hadn’t been within calling distance of another person. Even now, in his vast dining area, he could hear the snores of one dwarf or another coming from down the hall and he sighed again.

At the same time, though, he smiled.

Bilbo was blessed with good company, and blessed twice over for never feeling the sting of loneliness. He had been terribly, terribly lonely after his parents passing. Even now, 49 years old, he was amazed that he had forgotten nine whole years of his life, from when he was 33 to when he awoke in his bed, confused and naked like a new babe at the ripe age of 42. Bilbo knew that he would never be the same when he had found that his entire world had been taken, flipped inside out and glued on upside down, but he was hanging in there.

Bilbo could not find himself regretting the memory loss, not if it meant he had gotten to keep his dwarves.

He was a selfish hobbit.

Bilbo, thoughtful as he was, was pulled from his late night thoughts when the front door opened and in stepped Thorin. He waited in his seat, sipping at the strong tea as he peaked over the brim at his guest.

Now there was another thought that riled him. Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. Yes, how invigorating it was to learn of him, to think of all the analytical, existential, and simply crazy things that Bilbo had done for this dwarf that he had no outright memory of. Blue eyes met his, and Bilbo was sure that what burned in his skull was recognition. He was so utterly sure that the feelings that pooled in his dreams were not ones of fear or anxiousness or apprehension, but of a likeness and a strong bond of friendship.

Bilbo was sure that, had he remembered being thrown from the parapet, he still would have forgiven Thorin… no matter the pain he’d been through.

The king entered the kitchen, his eyes downcast and his head bowed as if he were a child in trouble. Bilbo had only been alone with the dwarf once, and even then he had not fully been alone. There had been his neighbors watching from their gardens or porches, the other hobbits shopping at the market, and then of course the fauntlings who had ambushed them on their way home. But Bilbo had seen the side-looks, the anxious eyes, the curled lip… He had seen this warrior of a dwarf present himself as nothing but apologetic and ashamed, and Bilbo did not have a clue how to fix him.

“It is late.” Thorin rumbled, like thunder over a low hill, and Bilbo was that hill--shaking from the noise and exploding from the lightning blue eyes. Bilbo only hummed in response, his tea warm comforting and he in no haste to go to sleep. Thorin hesitated for a moment before he sat down across from Bilbo, but still, he could not stare him in the face for too long a time. “I am sorry I did not return before now, I was… walking.”

Bilbo hummed again, placing his mug down on the table. “Was it a nice walk?”

Thorin looked up them, surprise in his eyes and his lips parted. What, was he surprised that he hadn’t been chastised? Bilbo thought on that for a moment, and decided, no, that that could not possibly be the case.

“It was a very nice walk, yes.” He answered quietly.

Bilbo nodded, standing from his chair. “Yes, I find myself rather fond of walks.” He started, a smile gracing his lips. He poured another mug and brought it back to the table, refilling his own as he went. “I remember walking with my mother and father when I was little, on small treks through the woods, even to Bree once or twice.”

Thorin stared into the contents of his cup for quite a while before taking a sip, and as he thought, Bilbo swirled his small pinky around the brim of his, lost in the memory of the life he had had before. His parents had been wonderful, and the snow outside made Bilbo think of horrible, nasty things, but in that moment, in that instance, he could think only of Belladonnas smiling, brightened face and Bungo’s red cheeks and wide eyes as he followed his wife and son to the very ends of a hobbit’s parameter.

Truly, there were no better people than the ones who had raised him, Bilbo thought.

“I know." The dwarrow breathed. "We walked much together, us and the company.” Thorin added after a while, his hands wrapped firmly around the mug. “We… talked... A fair amount.”

Bilbo laughed softly. “So I’ve been told.”

Thorin nodded, eyes gone hazy and brow stern, and took another drag of his drink. “And what else have you been told, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo smiled a small smile, and he stared without hesitation at the king. “I’ve been told many things.” He stated simply, but rather than leave it there, Bilbo continued. “Oin had told me that I’m quite the expert in herbs, and Gloin says I remind him of his son when I make cheesy jokes. Ori says I’m the best little brother he could ever hope for, Dori thinks I will do very great things, and Nori remains to be the only one to praise my quietness. Fili verbalizes that I spend too much time cooped up in the house, and Kili told me that I make the best food he’s ever tasted. Bofur tells me that the whittling he does is therapeutic, and I should try it, and Bombur tells me not to touch a single carving tool unless I’m instructed on how to handle it first, in case I might cut myself. And Bifur—” Bilbo stopped, his long winded explanation suddenly cut short. “Well Bifur doesn’t say much, but his eyes tell me that I’m doing something right by the dwarves.” Bilbo sat back, his hands folding on his round stomach. “But somehow, I don’t think that that’s what you had in mind, Master King.”

Thorin flinched. "I am no king here." The rumbling growl that shook his chest quickly died, “I am no king at all.”

Bilbo blinked through it unfazed. "Very well then, Thorin. You are not a king."

Thorin nodded and looked away, his expression nothing of what it had been. Bilbo felt awfully put out. His head buzzed with something he couldn't quite place, and he added that sensation to a fold in an entire library of things he couldn't quite place. It was an awful feeling to have, and Bilbo found himself having it all too frequently.

Where was the dwarrow that had smiled and laughed with him at the market? Where is the dwarf that had watched with a smile as his nephews flung peas at each other at the dinner table? Bilbo was suddenly very sad for the dwarrow in front of him.

“You were taken to another place in your mind yesterday… where did you go?”

Thorin looked up then, a puzzled bend to his brow. “I don’t understand.”

Bilbo leaned forward, eyes all serious as he gazed deep into the king's pale eyes. “I had a snowball fight with my cousins. You were laughing and enjoying yourself, and then suddenly you weren’t. I saw the shift, saw how you went from content to internally dying.” Bilbo sipped at his tea. “You went somewhere, to another place or another time. You saw something that crippled you, and I can’t help fix it if you don’t let me understand. “

Thorin gulped and Bilbo waited, and there was a very long pause before either of them looked away from the other. The not-king-dwarf bowed his head, gripping his temples with both hands. Bilbo waited, and waited, and before long both were staring into the depths of their mugs.

Bilbo wondered, not for the first time, if dwarves could ever just come out with it and not beat around the bush. The old Baggins thought himself very patient, and indeed he was, but he found his eyes wondering. He found old scars on Thorin’s arms and neck and the sweet tinge of red where the fire was steadily warming Thorin’s skin tickled a very strange memory within Bilbo; One that he still could not quite grasp. Bilbo wanted to fear the dwarf sitting in front of him; any other hobbit would have run for the hills had they known that their would-be murderer was under their roof but… well, Bilbo wasn’t any other hobbit.

“I was remembering…” Thorin said, but any words he may have prepared died instantly, and they were again left to stare into the others eyes.

Realization came then, and the hobbit nodded. “You were remembering my fall.”

Thorin scowled, but there was no anger there. Indeed, a deep wave of sadness and pain and helplessness washed over the dwarf’s features. His shoulders hunched forward and his face contorted in emotion. Thorin had all but flinched.

“It wasn’t a fall and you know it.” He rumbled, like thunder in the summer. His voice hitched and carried, as if it came from far away.

Thorin stood from his chair to leave, but Bilbo would have none of that.

“Well, yes, Mister not-king under the mountain. I’m quite aware that it wasn’t a fall, though I’m not the one crying over spilled milk.” He snapped, standing right along with him.

“Spilled milk?" Thorin screeched. "Bilbo, I tried to kill you. You are not dairy that has slopped on the floor, you are—!”

“A simple old hobbit." Bilbo interrupted, a fire raging within him. "Who, I might add, has made a very many decisions in his life time.” Bilbo concluded. “And not one of them do I regret.”

Thorin was breathing very hard, and his hands were clenched so hard on the table that Bilbo was sure that it would buckle. The dwarf was shaking, and when he gazed up, Bilbo saw tears streaming down his cheeks to fold away in the peppered beard.

“How can you forgive me if I cannot forgive myself?” Thorin rasped, and Bilbo saw the haunting hue of Deep Ocean cross into the dwarrows eyes, his lashes wet and brushing against his cheeks.

Bilbo placed a steady hand on top of one of Thorin’s and gazed up at him. “Some rivers run deeper than others. Some friendships survive memory loss." He whispered, just loud enough for the two of them to hear. And, Mahal, did his words echo through the room like screams. "All I know is that my mind tells me that I can trust you, so I do, end of story.” Bilbo stepped back, gathering up his cup to take to the wash basin. He refilled Thorin’s and placed the plate he’d made for the dwarrow before him. “Here’s leftovers from dinner. Eat, Thorin. Sleep. And most importantly, forgive.”

Bilbo squeezed his shoulder before stepping away and into the dark of the hall.

~~

The next few days, Bilbo was pleased to receive a letter from his dear cousins. Prim spoke of the many plants and animals that they had seen and collected. Drogo seemed ready to return home, but at Frodo's insistence that they stay out, he complied to extend their expedition.

Inside the envelope, Frodo had sent back some flower pressings and parchment soaked in natural oils that they had come across, and Bilbo made haste in preserving them. He truly was blessed to have a 'nephew' that was so thoughtful and caring, and Prim and Drogo had done a right job in raising him.

Gimli, ever the ball of energy, had been staying over at Bag End as Gloin was traveling to the city for some supplies, and Bilbo found himself all too eager to spend more time with this 'nephew' as well. There was always a chorus of “Uncle! Uncle!” being called by the teen, and Bilbo, being an only child, found the thought of being an uncle very appealing. He often found himself buying Gimli this or that anyways, and couldn't imagine life without the teen.

Speaking of, Gimli ran through, his dwarvish face already sprouted with an impressive beard.

"Uncle Bilbo!" He cried, eyes squinted in a smile. "Can I go to the market, please?"

Bilbo smiled. Gloin let Gimli walk to the market often, and he himself found no fault in it. "Certainly, lad." And at that, he remembered an earlier conversation. "Could you do me a favor and show Master Legolas to the market? He needs some supplies himself."

Legolas, who was sitting not an arm’s length away, looked up at this. He'd been reading a thick volume from Bilbo's library, a rather heavy, large book that fit perfectly in the elf's hand. Legolas looked between Gimli and Bilbo, and with a small sigh, he stood, or rather, hunched, as the ceiling was far too tall for an elf.

"Thank you for the consideration, Master Baggin's."

And before Legolas could even button his winter coat, Gimli was dragging him from the kitchen. Kili, who walked in from his bed chamber then, laughed at the sight.

"There will be a friendship everyone will just love." Kili snickered.

And Kili himself was not one to waste an opportunity.

He snuck around later that day, most of the dwarves either gone to work or resting before having to head out. Bilbo was cooking in the kitchen, and Kili hurried to cross it before the burglar could hear him.

Killi was very proud of himself at this. Perhaps he was part hobbit after all.

He snuck to the other hall that held bed chambers, and very carefully, he knocked on his desired one.

Now, Kili thought himself smart. He knew he would never be as smart as Ori or as strategic as his brother, but he knew how to get around, and knew how to keep out of trouble (most of the time).

So when Tauriel answered the door with quizzical eyes and half a smile, Kili knew enough in his head that she was his One, and that any stupid mistake he would ever make in his life would not be enough to keep him from loving this beautiful maiden. Yes, she had been the one to allow Kili through to see Bilbo just after the fall. She had been the one to help escort Bilbo through Mirkwood, and she had seen his Uncle here, to the Shire.

Kili owed this elf much more than an abused heart, but it was all he had, and he would give her anything he could.

He smiled up at her, extending a calloused, warn hand. "May I escort you on a secret mission, my lady?"

She smiled, and he smiled, and to Kili it seemed that the entire world was smiling. Starlight danced in her eyes and love dripped from his heart and there was not another feeling in the world that would ever escape the feeling of her hand in his.

It was just late enough that everyone had retired to bed. Thorin had wondered off to walk, as he often did at night, and Bilbo was preparing rolls for the next days luncheon. They snuck through the kitchen, Bilbo working with his back to them as they scurried and slid through the front door. It was not until they were out that Tauriel remembered that she had not brought a coat, and Kili, ever the gentleman, ran to retrieve his.

What he found inside the front door made him still, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Bilbo stood with his hands holding up Kili's spare winter coat, its surface neatly cleaned and swept, and the hobbit smiled up at the dwarf.

"Everyone is driving me crazy, I can’t have you and Miss Tauriel picking around me, too.” Bilbo tsked, his eyes bright as he smiled. “I'm thinking your lady friend needs a coat if you'll be staying out late." He offered, handing the coat over, and to Kili's utter surprise, he handed over a picnic basket as well. "Herbs that will keep you warm and enough food for the both of you, as well as her favorite tea and your favorite cider. Don't stay out too late." Bilbo added, patting Kili on the shoulder.

He turned away and returned to the kitchen, and Kili, dumbfounded as he was, turned back to his date.

Thank you, Bilbo. I owe you one.

~~

Thorin did not go to sleep until the sun rose, so busy was his mind that not a wink of relief reached him that night. He paced his room, rummaging through papers that Balin always seemed to produce from nowhere and sent off to anywhere he pleased.

It was a late night delivery this particular evening, in which Balin was always lingering too long and asking too many questions and prying with his knowing looks. Thorin, after a long stretch of frustration, slammed the quill on the spare desk he’d been working at. “Balin, I don’t even know what I’m signing.” He sighed, running his hands over his face.

Balin nodded, his eyes following his king as he stood and stretched. “That, and you’ve started signing your name Dorin Thurinson for the past half hour.”

Thorin groaned again, falling onto his bed. “Please leave me until tomorrow.” He pleaded, and Balin nodded and took his leave.

So none-the-less, Thorin did not sleep.

Instead, he thought of Dis and the wrongs he’d done by her.

He thought of Kili and Fili and the wrongs he’d done by them.

He thought of the company and the wrongs he’d done by them, too.

He thought of the elves and well… he thought of the elves, at least.

And then he thought of Bilbo.

He thought of Bilbo.

THERE ARE NO WORDS. NONE. HE COULD NOT EVEN BRING UP A SENTENCE TO TELL ANYONE HOW HE FELT, WHAT HE WANTED TO DO, WHAT HE HAD GOING ON IN HIS MIND. HE NEEDED TO MAKE IT UP TO THE HOBBIT, HE NEEDED TO BREAK FROM WHATEVER WAS KEEPING HIM UP, KEEPING HIM IN THE STATE HE WAS. THERE WAS NO WAY FOR HIM TO EVER RIGHT WHAT HE HAD DONE… NO WAY TO EVER COME TO TERMS WITH THE ACTIONS HE HAD PERFORMED. HE FELT AS IF HE WERE DYING AND COMING BACK TO LIFE WITH EVERY  LOOK OR GESTURE THE HOBBIT MADE. HE FELT AS IF THE WORLD ENDED EVERY TIME THE HOBBIT CLOSED HIS EYES. THORIN HAD NO IDEA HOW HE WAS EVER GOING TO REST EASY, KNOWING WHAT HE HAD DONE. THORIN--THORIN--

Thorin needed to stop thinking for a while.

He went and found the alcohol in one of the pantries.

~~

Thorin woke to a sharp rapping on his bedroom door, the noise of the morning gently simmering in the background. Everything seemed very peaceful and calm, no thoughts muddying his consciousness or feelings weighing down his gut. In fact, Thorin thought for a moment that he was still dreaming when the door opened and in walked Bilbo clad up in a nicely sewn waistcoat and fluffed, brushed feet.

“Up! Up, your kingliness!” Bilbo chided, his hands pulling apart the heavy curtains to let in a stream of blinding sunlight. Thorin groaned and turned over, sure that he sounded and looked every bit of a child, but he didn’t care at all. His head was pounding and his entire body was sore, and for just a moment he was able to slip away from all of that into a sweet kiss from sleep.

Bilbo approached him, lifting hair from the dwarfs eyes. He squinted, a thought passing over through the natural green color. “You got into the hobbit-scotch, didn’t you?”

~~

It was nearly half an hour later that Thorin finally squinted up at the resident hobbit. His throat was rough, and the only response that could be heard was a gruff moan, and Bilbo laughed. “Yup, hobbit-scotch. That’s a mighty hard hangover you have there, your highness.” The hobbit wagged a finger at him. “You shouldn’t be drinking something so strong without a hobbit or two around to help you walk to bed. You knocked over three of my side tables and a bookshelf on your way back to your bedroom this morning… did you know that?”

Thorin groaned. No, he hadn’t known that. He didn’t know much of anything at that exact moment. His head throbbed again, harder, and his eyes squinted against the faint light streaming through the sheets. He tried saying something he thought sounded at least a bit like, “sorry,” but instead came out like smarmy.

He turned over, his back cracking and his muscles splintering, and he decided that moving was a horrible idea. Mahal, his head hurt. He hoped he hadn’t vomited while drunk, and he hoped more that he wouldn’t vomit now.

What the hell did they put in hobbit-scotch?

When he next slipped into sleep, he woke to the soft press of a wash rag on his clammy forehead. It was comforting, the ghost of warm hands pressing the cool cloth to his skin. Thorin didn’t open his eyes, no, but he knew right off that it was Bilbo. The smell of lavender and ink wafted around him, and he was sure that if he focused long enough, the sound of the hobbits breathing would stick its rhythm right into his veins.

He thought it had only been minutes, but when he opened his eyes again the sun had long since been transferred from one side of the house to the other. He was safe to remove his limbs from the thick quilt he’d been sleeping under, and the wave of cool air that took him was amazing.

“You’re a mess, uncle.” He heard, and even that tiny noise made his neck stiffen and his head surge with achiness. Fili laughed when Thorin groaned and sat beside him on the bed. “Come, uncle, it’s well past noon and you’re still in bed.”

Thorin sat up with his nephew's help. To his relief, there was a glass of water and a lovely serum that Fili poured onto a spoon. It was very thick, and too bitter, but as soon as it ran down his throat, the dizziness cleared and the headache dissipated.

“Come, uncle. I’ll help you to the washroom. Bilbo will be cross if you miss another meal.”

The taste lingered even after he had brushed his teeth and had showered. He still had that sickly feeling in his mouth when he dressed and smoked a bit of pinch. It stayed even as he sat at table and was taunted by the others.

Dwalin nudged him and winked. “You’re losin’ your edge, Thorin! A little halfling liquor and you’re out of your wits!”

The king huffed, his eyes nearly shutting and the taste still stark in his mouth, but when he gazed up, both of his nephews were smiling at his and laughing, and well… That was worth any hangover on the world, wasn’t it?


	8. Chapter 8: Frodo and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long its been since updating. I have sold my soul to the corporate world and work an 8-5 job now. 
> 
> I have a 5 day weekend due to Hurricane Irma, as I'm right in the strike zone in Florida. I have been so nervous, I decided to sit down and write for a bit, and this is the only story I hold any hope to.
> 
> I didn't reread it, I just wrote it and decided to update before I change my mind.

Chapter 8:

Thorin was surprised, in a sense, when the brothers Ri came and asked to speak with him privately. They pulled him to the back garden, each one mulling over something in their mind as they walked together, each brother trapping the king within a triangle that he could not escape.

Thorin sat heavily in one of the many rocking chairs facing the horizon, the smell of soil fresh in the morning air. Dew still sprinkled the lawn and made the view before him seem ethereal. The shire glowed, and Thorin reveled in the chance to gaze upon Bilbo’s home in such a pure form.

“I think this talk is overdue, Thorin. And I think you know what we’re here to talk about.” Ori said tentatively. 

“I want to let you know Dori, Ori, Nori… It is not my intention here to cause trouble.” Thorin said adamantly for what he felt was the millionth time.  “I swear my actions that decade ago were due only to the dragon-sickness. My mind is free now, and I only wish to reconnect with my comrades, my kin, and my-” Thorin’s ears heated. “And  _ the _ hobbit.” He cleared his throat unknowingly, averting his eyes. “Bilbo.” He finished heavily.

“Bilbo,” Dori stated, “has handled this far better than any of us could have hoped for.”

“Aye.” Nori huffed. “When we saw you standing there in the cemetery the day you arrived, I swore I was going to have to kill you and hide your body in the woods.”

Thorin didn’t try to laugh at the joke, because it wasn’t one. He glanced at the knife Nori was whittling with, wondering how often he had come close to being stabbed in his sleep since he got here.

“It took everything in Ori and I to keep Nori away from you the first few nights.” Dori laughed dryly, seeing Thorin eyeing his younger brothers skillful hands. “Bifur and Bombur have also been keeping a sharp eye on Bofur. He would mount your head on a spike if he could.”

Thorin nodded, a slight curve to his lips. “I expected nothing less, and I hope to gain back the trust we once had between us.”

“I think we’ll get there one day. But to us, the wounds are still fresh, Thorin. Bilbo is everything to us. He’s what gets us up in the morning to go to work, what keeps us sane in the Shire. Bilbo is my brother, is the whole company’s brother, and we just want to protect him. Sue us if we’re over-protective, but we’ve seen him on his deathbed far too long for any one of our lifetimes.” Nori said, gritting his teeth as his hands continued to work.

Thorin again looked to the Shire’s horizon, imagining Bilbo’s life here as he grew up, as he lived his teen years, as he learned to bake in his parents kitchen, as he found his love for books, as he learned to tend the garden, as he picked flowers and arranged them into marvelous crowns, as he laughed to his heart's content, as he cried at his first heartbreak, as he tasted his favorite sweet for the first time,  as he woke from his comatoseness--

Thorin calmed the sharp intake of breath that forced its way down his windpipe.

_ No _ , he thought.  _ That was a part of his life, and I’m ever going to be close to him, then I have to move passed this. _

Thorin wanted to be here as Bilbo woke, as he spoke for the first time. Thorin wanted to see Bilbo drink his first glass of water, see him take his first bite of food, help him take his first steps, help him relearn how to button his shirt closed. Thorin wanted to brush and braid bilbo’s hair, wanted to rub lotion over his skin as he massaged the hobbits muscles. 

Thorin’s stomach twisted as his brain went into overdrive.

He wanted to wake to the scent of Bilbo, to his warmth, to the sound of his soft snores; Wanted to sweep the hair away from his forehead and massage the soft skin on his temple. Thorin wanted the hobbits books on his nightstand and his fine embroidered clothes in his closet and his hobbit sitting in an armchair smoking some rich pipe weed from the local markets of Erebor.

Thorin yearned for things that he could never have. 

“I want to be selfish.” Thorin said suddenly, and the three Ri brothers looked to him.

“I want to be selfish,” He repeated, stronger and more decided.  “I have a confession to make.” Thorin had caught himself off guard, and he felt completely thrown as his eyes met Dori’s, but he wanted to acknowledge the burn inside him, wanted to say out loud the fears that have been building up in him since he found out that Bilbo is alive. Thorin knew that soon he would have to return to Erebor, and the very idea tore him apart.

“If it’s about being in love with Bilbo, we all know, you needn’t bring it up.” Ori said matter-of-factly. 

“Excuse me?”

“Being in love with Bilbo,” Ori answered. “It’s obvious. That’s what we wanted to talk to you about.”

Thorin was struck dumb. He couldn’t even process the words that Ori was saying to him.  _ Love? Bilbo? He loves Bilbo? That is preposterous!  _ Thorin growled and crossed his arms, leaning farther back into the chair. 

Memories flashed across his vision and he tried to blink them away.  _ Bilbo’s eyes trapped in his mind even in dragon sickness, his laugh tinkling in every song, every gust of wind, every clap of thunder.  _ Thorin shook his head.  _ The smell of peppermint and lavender had lingered on his hands long after the hug between them on that mountain, after Bilbo had thrown his soft, palpable body in front of the blades of orcs to save him. The Hobbit’s smile around the campfire had haunted him through the sickness, his happiness taunting him, but also swelling in his chest, in a sad, unmistakable way that Thorin had never bothered to label.  _ He didn’t comprehend that that is exactly what has been pooling in his gut all along, exactly what has been fluttering his heart. Thorin thought himself foolish that he had not seen it before. Every heart thump when seeing the hobbits smile, every dream he had had about the hobbit, every daydream of the hobbit happy and content in life, every wish to be just  _ a bit _ closer, just  _ a bit more familiar _ …

“I… am in love with Bilbo.” Thorin blinked.

“Yes, that, we already know, Thorin.” Ori repeated. 

“I think I-- I need to go lie down for awhile.” 

Thorin stood to leave, but was pulled back down by Nori, the latter's eyes twinkling with mischief. “Come now Thorin, you can speak about being in love with out brother, no pressure!”

Thorin sat quietly, his heart in his throat, as thoughts and memories and wants flashed in his mind.

“Oh, Thorin! Don’t tell us you didn’t know you were in love with him! Everyone can tell!” Dori laughed haughtily, but then stopped when he saw the dazed expression on his kings face. Dori sputtered, wide eyed in disbelief. “Dear Mahal, I don’t think he knew.”

“You  _ must _ have known!” Ori argued. “Why else would you goggle over him how you do?”

Thorin still just sat there, disbelieving. “I have respect for him! He came to my aid when reclaiming Erebor!”

“Oh, stop being a ninny!” Nori all but groaned. “Anyone who even glances your way knows that you want to shag him senseless.”

Dori reprimanded his brother for his language, to which the feisty ex-thief merely shrugged.

“I am… in love with Bilbo.” Thorin breathed again. “I am in love with Bilbo.  _ I am in love with Bilbo.” _ Thorin’s whole world was rocking. The day of the snowball fight, he had fought himself for the want to hold the Hobbits hand. How many times had he stopped himself from wanting, from  _ needing _ something more from the hobbit besides friendship.

Ori sat back in his chair. He rubbed at his temples with his long, willowy fingers and sighed. “Thorin, I want to say something.” The dwarf sat forward, his eyes focused on Thorin as if this one bit of information was going to change his whole world. Ori took a determined breath, and then took Thorin’s hand in his. “I want you to know that I forgive you. Bilbo was not by blood-brother when we retook Erebor, but I knew long before our blooding  that he would always have a place in my heart, as family, and that day on the rampart, when you threw him over, I could have killed you and not regretted it.”

“I want you to know that I see now, the effect that the dragon sickness had, and I’m so sorry we didn’t stay to help you. We thought you were gold crazed, certainly, but not with  _ dragon sickness. _ I thank Mahal everyday that Bilbo lived. I spend everyday with my brother, and have for the past decade, including the two years he was asleep.” Ori gulped, tears pricking at his eyes.

“He… remembered you, before he remembered any of us. He had only been awake a few days, and from his bedchamber we heard him calling out for you. Every dwarf in the company came running, and Bilbo wanted to know which one of us was Thorin, that he  _ needed _ to see Thorin. When we explained that none of us was Thorin, it seemed to leave his head. Every few months, he would mention something distinguishing about you, bright blue eyes, or long black hair, or the damned sword Orcrist. He would mention it to me, offhandedly, and I would lie to him. I would tell him that I didn’t know a single dwarf that would fit that description, or a sword with that name.”

“And he would call me ridiculous, saying that his memory was right, and there  _ was _ a black haired, blue eyed, elven sword wielding dwarf somewhere that was tickling the very back of his mind with memories he could not bring up. He wanted to know why he felt  _ safe _ when thinking of you, why he felt like he could get lost in blue eyes and a deep voice and strong arms, as he says.”

“So, I think you’ll find, regardless of what you think about yourself or of what happened between you and Bilbo, that our hobbit already has an idea of who you were before the dragon sickness, and what he feels about you.”

And with that, Ori stood, dropping Thorin's hand. “If you pursue a relationship with Bilbo, I want you to know the constant scrutiny you will be under. There will never be a moment when there is not a dwarf watching you, listening, or following, and you know this to be true.”

Ori went back inside the smial.

Dori continued to puff on his pipe, and Nori finished whittling his wooden toy, setting it on the table between the rocking chairs. It was a striking resemblance of Bilbo, and Thorin found it comforting to stare at as his mind raced with all this new information.

 

~~~

  
  
  


The letter came a few days later. Bombur was home that day, and he was cleaning around the kitchen with Bilbo when young Gimli came running in with the mail. Bilbo cleaned his hands before taking the paper, and when he leaned back against the counter to read whatever had come in for him, Bombur thought nothing of it.

The silence wasn’t unusual, as you don’t normally talk when reading. When the dwarf heard a soft gasp, he turned in time to see Bilbo’s eyes welling with tears, and when Bombur went to say something, Bilbo fainted. Just,  _ boom. _ His head smacked against the ground, and at the sight of blood, Bombur nearly screamed.

Now, think of this from the eyes of a dwarf that had seen Bilbo lying still for years; seeing Bilbo fall to the ground unexpectedly scared the  _ blazes _ out of Bombur. He dropped the dish he’d been drying and rushed to the hobbits side, his eyes filled with fear and his hands rushing to find a heartbeat.

Bombur called for someone, anyone, but no one seemed to hear.

Now Bofur was smoking a bit from his pipe when his kin came running through the door carrying a limp hobbit. Everyone else that had been in the back yard either watching or participating in a sparring match stopped what they were doing at the sight of a pale, motionless Bilbo. They rushed him back to his room, back to where they had all cried at his bedside, back to where elves drove tubes into him. When they saw his eyes blink open the first time, Ori started crying. When he reached for Dori’s hand, they all sighed in relief. One at a time, they were all losing their minds.

Thorin stood at the door way, his heart pounding in his throat. Bilbo had a sheen of sweat on him, and he seemed to be crying.  _ You can’t sweat if you’re dead, _ Thorin reassured himself, but his stomach did not settle. Tears were pricking at his eyes.  _ Did he cry at the rampart?  _ Thorin tried to blink away the images of blood stains and mountains of worthless gold. Now was not the time for that, not when  _ the hobbit was dead for sure, there at the base of his mountain, his kingdom. His throne would be bigger than anything the hobbit would ever be. _

Thorin tried pushing the thoughts from his head as Bilbo’s eyes opened.  _ He saw dragons in the careful embroidery of Bilbo’s quilt and emeralds where the hobbits careful gaze should have been. Saw cold coins pooling around the room, saw-- _

“Bilbo, what’s the matter?” Oin asked as he pressed heavy gauze to the wound on Bilbo’s forehead.The hobbit's eyes were bright as they all tried not to crowd the hobbit, but also didn’t want to step away.

“The letter… The letter.” Bilbo said breathlessly, his breathing was hollow and his eyes rolled from one face to the other.

He murmured incoherently until it was brought into the room, and then he fell faint again.

“Bilbo!” Ori cried, tears continuing to fall down his red cheeks.

“Hush, brother, he’s only faint.” Nori tried reassuring him, but his own voice wavered as he gazed upon the hobbit.

“Oh my,” Balin sighed, his eyes having skimmed the letter already. “And I think I have an idea as to why he is so faint.”

What they found in the letter wasn’t the news they needed their hobbit to find, wasn’t something they themselves ever wanted to read. Bilbo’s pour heart hadn’t been ready, could never be ready.

“Primula and Drogo have drowned. Frodo has been orphaned.” Balin said shortly, eyes gazing out the window, and they all fell silent as the hobbit's eyes fluttered and he slipped from unconsciousness and into sleep.

  
  


~~ 

He woke an hour later to a handful or dwarves next to his bedside. Some sat in the hall, and the rest were surely no farther than the sitting room, if Bilbo knew his dwarves. 

Bilbo sat up and wiped his brow. His eyes searched the room, from his blood brothers eyes to Kili’s worried frown to Fili watching from the doorway. They were all afraid he would go into hysterics, that he would cry himself into another coma, and they would once again be without the hobbit’s smile. But when Bilbo stood from his bed, he shook his head and walked from the room.

“I’ll be leaving by lunch. Frodo will be coming here.”

 

~~

Kili wanted to tear through an empire and rip trees from the ground and smash through every window in the province when he saw Bilbo lying motionless on his crisp white sheets. Not his Bilbo, his sweet, caring hobbit-uncle that had never done anything wrong by anyone. Bilbo didn’t need this, didn’t need the stress in his life, not with Thorin’s mysterious return and his memories being told to him night after night, and the added stress of everything else that normally ailed the hobbit.

_ But the hobbit child. _ It was hard to think that two deaths could lead to something that fit together so perfectly.

Bilbo was true to his word; he went to Brandybuck hall that very same day to take the child home with him. He had a certificate of adoption written up by the Thain and a stamp of approval from the higher-end Baggins’. It had been only a week since the hobbit couple had drowned, and Bilbo had taken no time in taking Frodo in, taking care of the funeral arrangements, and moving the young boys things into another one of Bag Ends homely rooms.

Frodo was a quieter hobbit, which was saying something considering that most hobbits were already too quiet. He would slink about the house with his quiet hobbit-feet, and when dwarven eyes would fall on him, he would slip away from the group and disappear into his room.

Bilbo spent a good portion of his time working Frodo’s weariness from his little heart, and when the boy was comfortable enough to finally sit with them at dinner, Bilbo had the widest grin on his face. It was frustrating to some dwarves that the young hobbit did not take to them immediately, but Bilbo had to remind them that neither had he, and although the dwarves were impatient, they had to sit back and wait for the child to adjust to his surroundings.

Frodo still had nightmares a month after he had come into Bilbo’s care. He cried and asked for his parents, and when things got very bad, he was not afraid to call for Bilbo at any hour of the night _.  _

The first time Thorin sat in the living space while Bilbo read Frodo his bedtime story, the king thought his heart would melt through his chest and onto the floor. His mother used to read him stories like the ones Bilbo made up; stories of heroes rescuing damsels and trolls replanting forests and goblins burrowing holes so deep that the core of the land set them on fire and they blasted into the heavens and straight into the next life. Thorin thought those stories strange, Bilbo speaking to Frodo of death so soon after the boy had lost his parents, but in a soothing tone and a tale of other creatures, Thorin finally understood that Bilbo was teaching Frodo about death and where hobbits went when they were no longer breathing.

“There is a paradise in the clouds, Frodo, that we go to when it is our time. It is the greatest place in the universe, and each one of us will one day get the chance to live in paradise.”

Frodo was half asleep, his eyes already drooping. “Is that where Mama and Papa are?” He asked in a voice so sweet, so incredibly innocent, that Thorin’s heart hurt.

“Yes, love. That’s where they are now.”

Bilbo had a calming voice, one that made Thorin's throat close and his eyes burn if he thought about it for too long. Thorin could sit and listen to Bilbo spin tales for hours. When the boy fell asleep, Thorin watched Bilbo carry him off to bed, and soon, the hobbit was back beside Thorin.

The hobbit sat in silence for a while, his fingers massaging an invisible pain his his shoulder. The fire cast shadows along his brow, and Thorin watched without fear. This creature was truly magnificent, more beautiful than any gem that Thorin had ever come across, Arkenstone included. He would conquer any kingdom, kill any creature, to protect this one small hobbit.

“I have not had the chance to speak to you in a long while.” Thorin finally said. He felt green eyes turn to him, but Thorin could not meet them.

“Yes, it has been a while.” Bilbo smiled. “I suppose I have been quite busy with Frodo.”

Thorin smiled, his heart throbbing for Bilbo. “Anything you wish to speak about?”

“Yes, actually. I remembered something, and I’d like to ask you about it.”

Thorin’s eyes stilled on Bilbo’s, and he shuddered at the emotion that came over him. He was so blissfully in love with this hobbit that he could ask Thorin to walk off the edge of a cliff, and he would. “Anything, Bilbo. Name it.”

“I will be right back.” Bilbo said, and with a pat to Thorin’s knee, he stood and exited.

He returned only a moment later, carrying something in his hand that was light, silver, and very familiar.

“Mithril.” Thorin breathed, his eyes lingering on the gift he had so long ago given to the hobbit.

“Yes, indeed.” Bilbo smiled. “I’ve kept it safe, hidden in my wardrobe. I hadn’t any idea where it had come from, and when the others had seen it, they had mixed reactions. So i kept it hidden, and didn’t ask where I had gotten it from.” Thorin nodded his understanding. “But I had a memory, just after lunch, when I was shaking out the sheets to hang them on the line. It is, foggy. But I remember you taking the mithril, and lifting it--”

“And I helped you put it on. I told you it was made by my ancestors, and that no blade could pierce it.” Thorin finished for the hobbit, because suddenly he felt very overwhelmed.

“Yes, and Dori told me that when I was thrown from the parapet, that it had been the mithril that saved me.”

Thorin choked on the air that was trying to get into his lungs. How is Bilbo talking about this so casually? How does  he trust to sit beside Thorin, to brush knees with him, to talk so openly with him after what the dwarf had done?

“In a way, I think that you saved me, Thorin. You gave me an adventure, even if I don’t remember it. You gave me the mithril that allowed me to survive the fall, gave me the dwarves as a family.” He paused, running the silky armour between his fingers. “You gave me a life that I could never have imagined, so thank--”

“Do not thank me, Bilbo. I will never deserve your thanks.” Thorin rumbled, so low and quiet, that at first, Bilbo was unsure that he had heard the dwarf. “You are so much more than any expectation ever given to you. You raised your sword to Azog, you freed myself and my people from an elven prison, you learned to forgive me for something that I, myself, am still struggling with.”

“I told you already, Thorin. I have made my mind up about you. I think I know you better than you know yourself. You are so utterly lost in who you were during your dragon sickness that I think you forget the dwarf you were  _ before. _ I remember bits and pieces of him, and he is much as you are now. Loyal, considerate, _ stubborn. _ ” The hobbit rolled his eyes, mumbling about the stubbornness of dwarves. “I remember how much faith I had in you, and you had in me. I remember following you blindly on this quest that I was absolutely sure would be my last. But I survived. Because of your gift to me.”

Thorin sighed and looked into the fire, knowing full well that he was not going to win in an argument with Bilbo.

“I think that is enough for tonight.” Bilbo said warmly, gathering the mithril in one hand and setting his other on Thorin’s knee, squeezing it a bit. “I like these talks we have. We should do this more often, Thorin.” And with that, the hobbit stood, wished the king a good night, and strode to his bedroom without another word.

Thorin sat for quite a while, taking in the faint scent left from Bilbo’s presence, as he thought of the mithril and what Bilbo had said.

  
  
  
  


~~~

It was just before sunrise that Frodo found Thorin sitting alone before the fire, his wide eyes and mussed curls shining in the near darkness. Blue eyes met blue eyes, and Thorin watched as the hobbit child gathered a thick blanket around his shoulders.

“Will you tell me a story?” Frodo had asked, all shyness and need.

Thorin hesitated for only a moment. “My story will not be as good as your uncles.” He offered.

Frodo nodded and climbed into the king's lap. “That's alright. Uncle’s stories are pretty good. They’re going to be hard to beat.”

Thorin chuckled. “Alright then.” He conceded. He thought for a moment, setting his chin on a crown of sweet smelling curls. “Let me tell you a story about a dwarven king who learned a very valuable lesson about wealth, family, and love.”

 

~~~

The words that woke Bilbo was the most terrifying  sentence he’d ever heard.

_ Frodo is missing. _

He scrambled from bed and ran into the hallway with nothing on besides his night clothes. His heart hammered in his ears and his stomach dropped. Bofur was in Frodo’s room, half in the closet tearing clothes from the shelves while Bifur was stuck beneath the bed.

Bilbo rushed to the living room, his chest tightening. It was not like Frodo to get up and wander off. It was not like his nephew to just up and leave... or was it? It had only been two months since his nephew came to stay with him, and for all Bilbo knew, the boy could have been miserable the entire time and plotting his timely escape. Clothes would have been stuffed into a small bag and food gathered from the pantry. Bilbo would not find his nephew until it was too late; either a hungry animal or a too steep hill would take his nephew into the next life, and Bilbo was suddenly questioning whether or not he was a fit guardian, a fit parent, for a young soul like--

He rushed into the living room, scanning for any nook or cranny a hobbit child could squeeze into. The kitchen was bare, as was the pantry, and by the time he tried the third bathroom, all the dwarves were awake and rushing about, tearing furniture from their places to check beneath. Dwalin pried the sofa over his head as Ori checked every cushion and blanket on top. Dori lifted up book cases as Bofur and Bifur checked the armours.

Bilbo’s head was spinning, and the more worried he got the more a tight ache bloomed in his abdomen. Sweat was trickling down his neck and back, a twitch starting in his fingers. Bilbo couldn’t focus, couldn’t breathe, and he felt his entire world shaking.  _ Two months _ he had had the child, and he had lost him, lost Frodo like he had lost his parents, his family, his friends who had thought him strange. Frodo would be just another memory, like Elven kingdoms and magical forests and a dwarven king who had once meant the world to him.

“Bilbo?” He heard Bofur call, but he was already out the door, Sting in hand, drawn at the ready for whatever predator he was about to tear down. His mind was racing, his heart speeding. Bilbo’s mind was fleeting, and he could smell  _ gold shavings and dust in the air of his garden. A dragon’s shadow floated by him, the stench of charred flesh and smoke choking him. Bilbo felt dust under his feet where dirt should have been, felt the griminess of an unwashed body clinging to him. _

_ Bilbo felt the heat of a mountain on his skin, the stink of a kingdom that had sat alone for years surrounding him. There were two armies approaching the outer wall, and Thorin’s snarl rang through the air as the company gathered. The Dwarven kings eyes narrowed, his lips set. _

_ His hands dangled Bilbo off the rampart. _

 

~~~

The dwarfs back was pressed to the front garden gate, and the hobbit child sat on his lap. Thorin held a stick as he drew in the sand, first the mountain of Erebor and then the seal of his royal family. “And so the dwarven king regained his kingdom, but he lost a very dear hobbit friend in the process.”

Frodo nodded. “Did the king love the hobbit?” The boy asked, and a small part of Thorin broke a little.

He cleared his throat. “He did, Frodo. More than anything.”

Frodo chewed this over, redrawing a smaller seal beneath the one that Thorin had made. He traced it with his small fingertip and then squished it all down with his palm. He drew a heart beside it instead, and stopped to stare at it for a long moment. When he was done pondering, Frodo looked back up at him.

“Do you still love Uncle Bilbo?”

Thorin sighed, and right when he went to answer, Bilbo himself threw open the garden gate, his night clothes rumpled as if he had just woken up.

When Bilbo saw the two, he seemed so surprised and so relieved, and the hobbit fell to his knees before anyone could say anything, sword falling into the dirt of the garden path. Bilbo huffed out a sob, and Frodo ran to his Uncle without a seconds hesitation. He  linked his arms around the hobbits neck before either could move. Others in the company came out onto the porch, and soon everyone was standing behind their hobbit, Ori right on his shoulder as he comforted his blood-brother.

“Frodo!” Bilbo cried, wrapping his nephew in the hug of all hugs. “I thought you had run off, I thought you were taken, I thought the absolute  _ worst--” _

“I apologize.” Thorin rumbled, and Bilbo gazed up at him, a migraine starting at the crown of his head. “He came to me just an hour ago and I thought it pointless to put him back to bed so early.”

“ _ And you. _ ”  Bilbo all but growled. “Did you not hear the commotion going on inside? Did you not think to let someone,  _ anyone _ , know that you had Frodo with you?”

Thorin sat, dumbstruck. He hadn’t thought to, no. He was only in the front garden, he thought for sure someone would pass by a window or come to sit on the porch and the morning would carry on how it usually did.

“I apologize.” Thorin breathed again.

“Uncle, don’t be cross with Thorin, he loves you. You don’t yell at someone who loves you.”

Thorin stilled at Frodo’s words. He was still seated on the ground, his eyes wide and his hands still on his knees where they had been fidgeting. Frodo stared between the two, his brows drawn together.

Without a word, Bilbo stood and strode to his house with his nephew in his arms. He did not make eye contact with either Ori, Nori, or Dori. He merely kept going and did not stop walking until his nephew was first set at the breakfast table with biscuits and jam in front of him. When that was settled, Bilbo walked to his room and closed the door firmly.

That’s when Bilbo cried until he could not feel his insides.

 

~~

Thorin was going to be sick. He had made Bilbo cry  _ again _ , and over all things, his family. The king felt hands under his armpits, and Dwalin pulled him to his feet, Frodo’s blanket falling to the ground and covering the dirt drawing of the heart the hobbit had made.

Thorin found that very symbolic.

**Author's Note:**

> don't be afraid to comment, I try to answer every single one!


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